How I impregnated your mother
by MildredandBobbin
Summary: Follow up to Maybe in the meantime wait and see. Set a year later, Sherlock and John are together and things are good, great even...except...Sherlock's in a one sided competition with John's dead wife, John hasn't proposed yet, and now Harry and Clara want Sherlock and John to father their children. Parentlock.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** How I impregnated your mother

**Author: **Mildredandbobbin

**Rating: **M

**Pairings:** Sherlock/John, Harry/Clara, Molly/Lestrade

**Disclaimer: **This modern incarnation belongs to Moffat, Gatiss et al, original works belong to the late and great ACD and any original characters are mine, which is not saying much.

**Warnings/Content: **Parentlock. Various pregnancy themes and issues. Angst. Drama. Infidelity. Established Johnlock.

**Summary: **Follow up to _Maybe in the meantime wait and see_. When Harry and Clara ask John and Sherlock to be the fathers of their children John doesn't think it's a good idea. Sherlock on the other hand is all for it.

**AN:** Huge thanks to the lovely T. Sylvestris for beta-ing for me! Of course I fiddled with it just now so any mistakes are my own fault.

**How I impregnated your mother**

**Part 1**

The afternoon was pleasantly sunny as John and Hamish stepped out of the Reptile House at London Zoo. They went to stand by the Gorilla Kingdom to wait for Sherlock and Audrey to catch up. John checked his mobile, listening with half an ear to Hamish's three point six year old chatter as he remembered that they'd have to pop into Tesco on the way home and that he hadn't made up the kids' beds yet in the spare room.

"Daddy, Daddy, I have to tell you something," said Hamish suddenly in his high-pitched little voice.

"Oh? What's that?" John asked as he watched a gorilla scratching it's behind on a tree stump.

"Daddy," said Hamish very seriously. "Audrey said you're not really her Daddy."

John winced, suddenly paying one hundred per cent attention to the little sandy-haired monkey standing beside him. He'd known this was coming, he'd just hoped it wouldn't be this soon, he thought they'd have maybe made it until they'd been at least four. John should have known Audrey would have worked it out, she was Sherlock's daughter after all. He thought it was a bit unfair that said father of said genius three year old was currently absent and he was left to deal with questions from curious mere mortal children by himself.

"Well," said John carefully. "Technically she's right but you know, Mama and Mummy and Father and me are all your parents, and legally you're both brother and sister."

"Why is she right technically?" Hamish asked, his blue eyes boring unrelentingly into his father's.

John sighed. "Well…"

"Audrey says that you're really her Uncle and I'm ack'lly her cousin."

"Yes…yes that's true…technically speaking."

"And Audrey said that Mummy isn't my Mummy and that you and Mummy are brother and sister and that makes Mummy my Aunty and not my Mummy."

This confession made Hamish look so sad that John had to crouch down and pull him into a cuddle. "Hey, Mummy is definitely your Mummy and she would be very sad if you thought otherwise."

"But-"

"Ok," said John and took a deep breath.

* * *

_Not quite five years earlier_

"No. Absolutely not. That is the worse idea of worst ideas in the history of worst ideas ever, Sherlock." John slammed the door to the flat behind them.

Sherlock shrugged off his coat. "It makes perfect sense," he said.

John pulled off his jacket and threw it over a chair. "No. You- my sister – you do realise addiction is genetic don't you? God, the kid wouldn't stand a chance-"

"I am not an addict John," Sherlock said stiffly.

"No, you've only got an addictive personality. And my sister? Can you imagine her in charge of a child?" John ran his hand over his eyes and through his hair.

"Clara is extremely sensible, for someone who married your sister, twice."

"Harry and Clara only got back together a year ago. Bad. Bad. Bad idea."

"What if I want to have a child John?"

"Since when?" Sherlock had expressed no interest in children whatsoever, in fact, if asked, John would say Sherlock pretty much ignored them if at all possible. Point of fact, when they went to visit Molly and Greg's new baby last week he'd stood in the doorway and wouldn't touch the little mite. True, children seemed to like him, mostly because he treated them like small adults and spoke to them like he'd speak to anyone, and being children they were used to condescension so they didn't take offence.

"I have impeccable genetic material, I would like to ensure its continuation and survival."

Oh right. "Sherlock, do you even know what it takes to raise a child? The cost, the emotional investment, not to mention the sleepless nights-"

"They only want our sperm John, it would be a simple exchange of genetic material."

"Yeah, but I wouldn't be a father then, not really, I'd just be some donor. If I was going to have children, I want to be part of their lives."

"It's your sister, John, you'll be a part of the child's life regardless. Why else would they ask us?"

John sat down.

Sherlock pressed his advantage. "You don't want to raise children with me?"

"Oh god. I hadn't even thought about it."

"But you wanted children." Sherlock was frowning, arms wrapped around himself.

"Maybe, once, when I thought I'd have a wife to have them with…." Sherlock flinched and John groaned. "No…I mean, I don't mean it like that. I wanted kids with Mary, I don't really want kids with my sister and her wife."

"I see." That was a very definite 'I see'. The kind of 'I see' that in another life John would have known meant he'd said something Not Good, but that was before he started going out with Sherlock Holmes who was blunt as a hammer and just as unlikely to take offence as John so the warning didn't register until Sherlock turned on his heel and strode out of the room and slammed the door to the bathroom.

"Fuck," said John and sank back against the sofa. Of all the bad ideas… He'd been counting on Sherlock thinking it was appalling, that he could gracefully tell Harry and Clara that they couldn't be a part of their plan to procreate because Sherlock didn't want kids, but no, for some God unknown reason Sherlock was all for the idea.

Harry and Clara had asked them over to dinner to pop the question, so to speak. They were both turning forty-one, their biological clocks were ticking. They both wanted kids. They both wanted to be pregnant and experience the joy of motherhood. On paper, John supposed it sounded like a good idea – he would donate sperm to Clara, so the resulting child would at least be related to Harry too, Sherlock would donate sperm to Harry and the two children would be at least cousins. Except – Harry, a mother? With Clara? The two of them had been on again off again for years. Not a great environment to bring up a kid. Of course John wasn't completely insensitive, he'd just said they'd have to think about it, fully intending to refuse politely over the safety of the telephone, preferably with Sherlock as an excuse.

But then, on the way home in the cab, Sherlock had been oddly quiet, and when John had expressed his disbelief to Sherlock, his partner had looked him straight in the eye and said he thought it was a good idea.

It had gone downhill from there. And now Sherlock was mad at him but he couldn't agree to go along with this idea – it was completely insane, irresponsible and a whole lot of other things starting with 'i'.

Sherlock emerged from the bathroom in his pyjamas and dressing gown. He didn't look at John and marched off to the bedroom, shutting the door loudly behind him.

Right. John guessed he was sleeping on the sofa tonight then. He knew it had been a bad idea to turn the second bedroom into a laboratory. He ran through his last few words to Sherlock, trying to figure out exactly what he'd said- Oh. That. Hmm, yeah, he supposed Sherlock might have taken that to mean he didn't want to have kids with _him. _John swallowed. He'd never even seriously considered having children with Sherlock, it just seemed too improbable. _Sherlock_ and kids? He couldn't even feed himself, let alone a small dependent human being.

John sighed. He'd have to do a bit of grovelling about this one. It was novel, being the insensitive one for a change. He sometimes forgot that just because Sherlock was often a thoughtless git, it didn't mean he couldn't get hurt feelings too. John got up and hesitantly opened the bedroom door. Sherlock huffed and turned over pointedly. John climbed onto the bed beside him and attempted a conciliatory cuddle. Sherlock lay stiff and still.

"You really want to have kids?" John asked. He gave up on the cuddle and smoothed Sherlock's curls back from his neck instead.

"You wanted them with Mary," came the mumbled response.

Mary, ah, it was this again. Every few months, John would discover that Sherlock was having a one-sided competition against John's deceased wife. "That's different," said John.

"You don't want to have them with me."

"You don't have to be Mary, Sherlock," John said gently. John didn't know why Sherlock had these flashes of insecurity, fuck knows he was the one who should be insecure, by all objective measures John was the one who was batting out of his league.

Sherlock just sighed. Oh God, a sulk. John sighed in response. This could last for days if he didn't shut it down now. "I don't want a _wife_, Sherlock, I want you. I don't care if we have kids or not."

"That's a lie."

"No, it's really not."

Sherlock turned over to glare at him. "You wanted children, you were going to have a child. People don't change that much."

"I don't know, I'm suddenly in a homosexual life partnership," said John.

Sherlock looked indignant. "No, you're not. You won't marry me either."

John rolled onto his back and covered his eyes. Oh God. Now the marriage thing? "We'd only been going out for two months! It was a bit soon."

"And now? You married Mary after eight months. We've been together a year."

John moved his hands away to stare at Sherlock incredulously. "You never asked again!"

"I already asked once!" Sherlock rolled onto his back and folded his arms.

"So it's my turn is it?"

"Obviously."

"Well I'm not asking you now. Not in the middle of a row."

"Don't bother. I've gone off the idea completely."

"Sherlock..."

"Well I have."

"Fine. I won't ask you. We'll just live together and sleep together and shag and love each other until we die. Ok?"

"Perfectly fine."

"Good." John turned onto his side and brushed a curl away from Sherlock's ear. "I'll think about the kids thing, ok?"

Sherlock sniffed and then looked at John out of the corner of his eye. John raised his eyebrows. Sherlock sighed dramatically and rolled over to face John. He pressed his forehead to John's. John lifted his face, brushed their noses together and then pressed his lips to Sherlock's in a kiss that turned into make-up sex fairly quickly.

* * *

Sherlock was happy with his life. He had puzzles and mysteries to keep him occupied, more than enough adrenalin inducing adventures to entertain him and he had John. This last point was the most important. He had spent three years trying to exist with just the first two elements and the result was not satisfactory. John was an essential component.

John filled out all the spaces in his life. John was in his bed, somewhere around the flat, hovering at a crime scene, laughing against an alley wall and kicking him under the table at Angelo's. And John, for the most part, was happy. He'd nearly completely forgiven Sherlock for unforgivably making him think he'd jumped off Bart's. He'd tucked his grief for Mary away in some small place where it wouldn't bother him anymore. And he was not particularly bothered that suddenly without either of them meaning too, they had become not just friends but everything else as well.

John said he loved Sherlock and John held Sherlock so tightly and said such beautiful things that Sherlock had to believe him.

Except.

There was that woman the other week, the robbery victim and John had been solicitous and kind and he'd given her that smile and shake of his head and that cheeky, self-deprecating humour that always endeared women to him. There was _flirting,_ if you asked Sherlock. And then there'd been those times when he'd seen John's gaze flicker, just a bit, off to the right to the chest of some approaching female or the pert behind of a retreating one. And then there'd been Mary, who'd been boring and normal and exactly John's fantasy of domestic bliss. And John _said_ he only wanted Sherlock and he was always keen and willing for sexual activities, but all the same Sherlock kept waiting for the other shoe to drop and for John to realise he didn't want this forever and he'd like a bit of tits and pussy again thanks very much.

And then there was the baby thing. John had been going to have a baby with Mary before she'd been killed in that car accident. John had wanted kids. And last week when they'd gone to see Lestrade and Molly's spawn, John had…melted…was the word, and had gotten a ridiculous gooey expression on his face as he held the little bundle of proto-humanity. It had made something hurt inside Sherlock because John would never make that face because of him. And one day John would be sorry that he'd chosen Sherlock.

Of course Sherlock didn't actually want to raise children himself, he was far too self-centred to even dream of dealing with all the self-sacrifice it undoubtedly entailed. Sherlock had been considering this problem for a while, as much as he wanted John to have everything he wanted, the idea of actually putting himself out for eighteen years or more was difficult to contemplate. Surrogacy, adoption, both would require concerted parental involvement and effort on his part and might cause John to say unpleasant things like 'maybe you should consider getting a proper job'. He could always hire a nanny but where would they all fit in 221B Baker Street and Sherlock didn't particularly want to move. He'd decided what they needed was somebody to have John's baby, look after it for them, and let them borrow it for a day or two, here and there.

He might have _mentioned_ to Harry, in passing, perhaps, that he and John would dearly love to have a family but oh, as two gay men with a dangerous lifestyle, what were they to do? Harry and Clara responded with such perfection to his kernel of an idea that Sherlock could have kissed them both at dinner the night before.

He was a little put out when John rejected the idea outright. And it _stung _when it became clear that John just did not even consider him as a potential co-parent. And also a little insulted; _obviously _he'd taken his apparent paternal limitations into consideration when devising this scenario.

He'd just have to convince John that this was the perfect solution.

* * *

If John had thought that was the end of it and he'd be able to conveniently not mention it again and it would all blow over, he was wrong. The discussion didn't stop there. The next morning at breakfast Sherlock returned to the topic.

"She'll do it anyway, you realise. At least this way you'll have more rights if you need to step in. Mycroft can draw up the papers."

"Mycroft, right, in case this doesn't get any more bizarre."

"It's practical John."

"I guess I can't stop you if you're hell bent on doing this."

"I'm not doing this without you, John, having children _with_ you is the whole point."

John stared at Sherlock. "Why? Why this sudden need to have kids with me?"

Sherlock's jaw tightened. "I don't want you regretting being with me."

John swallowed and lifted his chin. "Sherlock, I will never, _never_ regret being with you. Get frustrated and annoyed with you, yeah, get sick of picking up your underpants from the bathroom floor, definitely, but not regret, no."

Sherlock looked away and toyed with the edge of the table. "I'm not suggesting we raise the children ourselves, John, I'm not stupid. I do realise our way of life is incompatible with a family but this way we could have some input into their lives, you could be a father but still be with me."

"It's Harry, Sherlock…I just…I don't know." John rubbed his eyes.

"If I have a child with Harry, it will be almost like having one with you, genetically."

John met Sherlock's gaze. "You really want to?"

Sherlock frowned. "I want you to want to."

"Sherlock, is there some problem, with us, that we should talk about, because having kids to fix a relationship is about the worst possible thing you can do."

"No, and I don't want there to be, I already told you, I know you want children and I don't want you regretting not having them because you're with me. I don't wish to inconvenience myself or alter my lifestyle but I am willing to do this, to create a child and even provide a level of involvement that will allow us to monitor and participate in its development. Doing so with strangers would be difficult, so this seems an ideal solution."

John let this sink in for a moment. He might regret not having children, not now, but later. He couldn't guarantee that he would never regret it. And Sherlock was right, adopting or getting a surrogate so that _they_ would raise the children by themselves would never work. He shook his head. "Harry might not even be able to get pregnant. She's forty-one this year. So's Clara."

"Then you have nothing to worry about." Sherlock took a sip of tea.

"Can we even afford kids?" John picked up his toast and put it down again.

"Harry and Clara hardly expect child support but we have a significant amount saved since you sold your practice. What else are we going to do with it?"

John sat back in his chair. "I don't know, it's pretty messy legally – I mean I think Clara and Harry want to the children to be theirs, so where would that leave us?"

"I told you, Mycroft will do the paper work."

John looked at Sherlock, maybe…"Clara has dark hair and is tall like you…it would be a bit like having a baby with you, too, I guess."

Sherlock looked at John. John sighed. "Let me think about it ok?"

Sherlock sighed and waved his hand. "Fine."

tbc


	2. Chapter 2

Thanks again to my lovely beta TSylvestrisA - all mistakes are my own.

**Part 2**

It was true, John_ had _wanted to have children and had been over the moon when Mary had become pregnant. When he'd lost Mary and the baby in the accident he'd had to deal with the loss of both wife and potential child. He had relegated children to the realms of might-have-beens and lost dreams. When he and Sherlock had gotten together he'd decided that he was ok with never having children, that it was something that he'd have done if he'd taken the 'normal' path but instead had chosen Sherlock and all the madness _that_ entailed.

He had always wanted to be father. Have a little son or daughter, be like his Dad was, kind and caring, read them books and teach them to ride bikes and go fishing and play cricket and football.

John called Harry and asked if they could meet for coffee. His relationship with his sister had improved a lot since he'd first returned from Afghanistan. Harry had started working on her drinking problem and despite the occasional slip up she was doing really well. The year John had met Sherlock was the first Christmas he'd spent with Harry since they were teenagers. It had been considerably less tense than those earlier times and had not ended with anyone storming out in tears or at the A&E having their stomach pumped. And then when Sherlock had faked his death, Harry had been there, trying, and even though John couldn't bear her sympathy, he at least appreciated the effort. Mary, who'd never had a sister, had brought them even closer, inviting Harry to family events, birthdays, Christmas, their engagement and wedding. Harry had been ecstatic when they'd told her Mary was expecting. And when Mary had died, Harry had been there again, trying to help. They had now reached a relationship where they both were able to ignore the parts about the other that irritated them, and appreciate that the other meant well.

"You really want to do this?" he asked when they sat down.

She looked at him for a long moment, her blue eyes searching his. "Yeah John," she said softly. "I really do, _we_ really do." She toyed with a packet of sugar on the table. "It's the drinking thing isn't it? Because it's been 463 days and I haven't touched a drop. I go to all my meetings- I'm – I'm on top of it, it doesn't own me anymore."

John bit his lip. "And you and Clara?"

"This is it John, Clara and me. It always has been, I just had to get rid of the third party in our marriage."

John nodded.

"Did you talk about it with Sherlock?"

"Yeah…he's…he's pretty keen actually, surprisingly, but I think it's for the wrong reasons. He's still hung up on me and Mary. I think he only wants to do this because he thinks I want kids."

"Oh."

"Um…how much do you want from us in this? Involvement? I mean, the reason I'd do this is to be a father and if you only want an anonymous donor then maybe that's what you should just get. But we can't - Sherlock's all keen now but you know how he is, the minute something interesting comes up he's off. Totally unreliable babysitter. And I…I want to help and I'd want to see the kids regularly but well what we do is pretty dangerous, I mean I've been to the A&E three times this year already – so you can't expect too much from us either-"

"Johnny. Clara and I would like to be legal parents to both children, we want them to be ours, but we want them to have father figures, male role models. We want you guys in their lives, as much as you can. If that means just birthdays and Christmas, ok. They'll know you're their fathers. But that being said, _we'll _ be their primary carers – so…no bossy big brother ok or we'll have to figure something else out."

John looked at Harry. She was different now, better than she'd been in years. Her blonde hair was short and stylish, no longer unkempt, she looked healthy again and almost her age rather than a decade older like she used to, her skin looked better and she no longer had the dark shadows and bags under her eyes. She was put together, relaxed, happy. "I can respect that – but if any- if you go off the rails Harr- I'll step in, right?"

Harry gave him a firm, direct look. "I'm counting on it, Johnny."

"Right. Good."

"You'll do it?"

"I'll think about it. I need to talk to Sherlock some more. I can't – he brought up the marriage thing again last night. I think – I'm seriously thinking about it. I just – I can't help thinking he's just doing it because he thinks that's what I want, which is thoughtful and nice but it should be something we both want to do, not because he's living in the shadow of my dead wife."

"He knows he'll never able to be everything you want John, you were straight before this, yeah? And he knows that on some level you'll always like women and you did have a wife and she was pregnant, so yeah, he'll always be trying to compete with that."

John rested his chin in his hand and stirred his coffee, thinking about that. It wasn't like he didn't have his own trust and abandonment issues. Thinking for three years that the man you loved had jumped off a building and then finding out he'd only wanted you believe that was not something you could just brush off. He supposed Sherlock was entitled to his occasional crises of confidence.

"He adores you Johnny, I've never seen anyone look at you like that – like the sun shines out of your arse. Mary, yeah, loved you, but Sherlock worships you."

"Piss off."

"He does, really. And if marrying him is the way to show you want to be with him forever and you're not holding out for some bird to come along, then maybe you need to – if you do want to be with him forever."

Amazingly, Harry liked Sherlock. The first few times after he and Sherlock got together and Harry had asked them round Sherlock had always found an excuse not to go until finally John put his foot down and said that if Sherlock wanted to be important to him he had to meet his family. John knew Sherlock could be reasonably pleasant if he wanted to so on the cab ride over to Harry's he'd given him strict instructions along with dire warnings about being on his best behaviour. Sherlock had loomed silently behind John as Harry greeted them.

"Harry," John had said after enduring Harry's fierce cuddle and kiss on the cheek. "This is my boyfriend, Sherlock."

And Harry had pursed her lips with a twinkle in her eye and looked him over from top to toe, then held out her hand. "Sherlock, so nice to finally meet you," she'd said.

John had held his breath, waiting.

"Harry," Sherlock had only said.

"Oh, come here, idiot." And she'd pulled him into a squeeze as well. Sherlock had stood there looking strangled.

"And this is Clara," introduced Harry as the tall brunette had come into the entry. "My wife."

"Charmed," Sherlock had muttered briefly. John shot him a look, which he'd responded to with wounded innocence.

At dinner Sherlock had obviously decided to follow the rule of saying nothing if you don't have anything nice to say and had sat silently through the first ten minutes of the meal.

"So, Sherlock, John told you to be on your best behaviour didn't he?" Harry finally commented.

"He did," replied Sherlock shooting John a challenging look.

John had laughed nervously.

"Yeah, he's a bit like that. Rather proper our Johnny," Harry had said. "I imagine you had to remove that stick lodged up his arse before you were able to fuck him."

"Jesus, Harry!" yelped John.

"Tell me Harry," said Sherlock in a low purr. "Has John always been this…_staid_?"

And Harry had grinned and John knew then what he was in for a round of 'let's share anecdotes about John'. He'd been right and by the end of the evening, Harry _loved_ Sherlock and Sherlock was smirking like a bloody cat that had gotten the bloody cream and Clara was trying to be kind to John but it was ok and after that John hadn't worried about Sherlock spending time with his sister and sister-in-law.

John thought some more after he left Harry and took the long way home, walking and thinking.

He found Sherlock perched on his armchair, fingers steepled, deep in thought. John knelt down in front of him and wrapped his arms around his middle and put his head on Sherlock's lap.

"You're home," murmured Sherlock.

"I love you and I love my sister and I can think of worse reasons to have a baby. I want to do this, if you still do."

He felt Sherlock's hands rest in his hair, and then the light pressure of a kiss bestowed as well. "Yes," said Sherlock.

"Good," said John. And that was that.

**tbc**


	3. Chapter 3

**Short one this time to be going on with :) Thanks for your feedback and favouriting! And a HUGE thank you of course to the lovely TSylvestrisA for the beta read :)**

**Part 3**

There wasn't much time to think about sperm donation or anything baby related for a few days after that as Dr John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detectives, as Sherlock had insisted on calling their business partnership, were engaged in a difficult case for the Yard. Lestrade had got around using Sherlock again to help with the trickier cases by signing them both on with the Met Police Volunteers programme. This meant a day long induction course that Sherlock had to sit through on pain of never setting foot in the Yard again. The result however was the Lestrade felt far more relaxed about asking for Sherlock's assistance. They'd agreed with Lestrade early on that a case had to be at least a nine, or if not, someone's life had to be in jeopardy before they helped. It was a spate of similar murders across London that had Lestrade pounding up the stairs to 221B Baker Street and asking John if he could spare his other half to take a quick look at a crime scene or five.

By the end of those three days of crawling through sewers, climbing along dusty rafters, sleeping in chairs and focusing solely on hunting the gang of assassins for hire, all John wanted to do was have a long shower and then let Sherlock make him all dirty again.

Those two aims had been achieved, twice, and after some sleep and another shower John went out to hunt and gather something for breakfast or lunch as the case may be. He'd just stepped out the door when a familiar black car pulled up beside him.

John sighed. He opened the door and looked closely at the attractive young woman sitting there, just to make sure it _was_ Mycroft kidnapping him. It wasn't like he hadn't been fooled before. It was the PA known as Anthea so John slid into the car.

Mycroft had set up a sweet little tea party in an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the city.

"Mycroft," said John shortly.

"Dr Watson, John, how good to see you again," smiled Mycroft in that creepy way he had that he probably thought equalled charming.

John smiled tightly. "Nice to see my tax money being put to good use."

"Oh John," chuckled Mycroft. "Your tax contribution wouldn't even begin to cover the cost." Mycroft smiled lightly. "My brother's mind is a dangerous tool, Dr Watson, you can see how it would be in the public's best interest to ensure its well-being."

"So this, what, you have a budget for keeping tabs on Sherlock?"

"Rest assured, Dr Watson, I do keep all my receipts."

"Right…" John decided to move along. "So, what's this about today?"

"It's come to my attention that my brother and your good self are planning to embark on parenthood."

Of course he knew. John's face burned as a horrible thought occurred. "Don't tell me you're still bugging the flat? That's just a bit…creepy, don't you think?" He really didn't want to think about what a surveillance bug in the lounge room might have picked up. Really. Didn't.

Mycroft laughed. "Oh, no, John, don't be concerned, we've limited our surveillance to wire taps and your internet traffic."

John frowned. "That's a…relief?"

"Although, one does have to ask – does my dear brother know you like to look at naked women online?"

John ran his hand over his eyes. Nothing was sacred. "I'm sure he knows. He's Sherlock."

"Yes…but your preferences-"

"I'm not actually gay you know, even though I'm shagging your brother. Sherlock's – Sherlock's an exception."

"Hmm."

"Really none of your business," said John shortly.

"Calm yourself Doctor Watson, I was only curious. Now, back to the issue at hand, your arrangement with your sister and her wife - I assume you've considered all the positives and negatives of this proposal?" Mycroft asked watching John closely.

"Yes," said John, not letting the man rattle him.

"Very well, I won't insult you by suggesting you don't understand my brother's character. If this is what you've both decided then, I shall do my best to assist you."

"Um right, yeah, Sherlock did say you might be able to help with the, um contract."

"Of course, John. I gather from your conversation with Harriet that you'll be wanting regular access and co-guardianship of the children."

John bit back a terse retort and took a breath before replying. "That's right. Harry and Clara will be on the birth certificates and will be their parents but we want to have some say, and be able to step in if we need to. We want to contribute financially and we want to set up a trust fund for their education."

Mycroft nodded. "Consider it done. I'll have a contract drafted and dropped around shortly."

"Thank you, Mycroft, we do appreciate it."

Mycroft inclined his head politely. "And am I to expect a happy announcement of a different kind any day soon? It would make the paper work much easier, you understand." The first time Mycroft had said that to John, years ago when John had first become flatmates with Sherlock, it had been a snide way of asking if he was shagging Sherlock, now it seemed like genuine interest, or maybe meddling. Who'd have thought the Holmes' brothers would both be so caught up in societal traditions?

"Um, not- you'll be the first to know," John finished deciding politeness was kind of important.

"I look forward to it then, well, I have a rather essential meeting to attend, so if you'll excuse me?" Mycroft smiled politely.

John got the hint and stood up. "Right. I'll just see myself out then."

"And Dr Watson?"

John turned, eyebrows raised.

"Good luck. I hope…you are both successful. I look forward to being an uncle."

And wasn't that a terrifying thought. John swallowed and turned on his heel, trying not to shake the feeling that Mycroft knew something he didn't.

* * *

_Give him back –SH_

The phone rang and Sherlock hit ignore. A moment later a reply came in text format.

_Don't worry, I'm returning your good doctor as we speak. – MH_

_And it's none of your business – SH_

_Really Sherlock, the continuation of our family's bloodline is naturally my business. In fact I'm grateful. I was contemplating having to make some sort of arrangement myself. –MH_

_Don't try reverse psychology, it's beneath you. – SH_

_You wound me, Sherlock. I'm looking forward to being an uncle. – MH_

_Yes, every child needs a jolly, fat uncle - SH_

_Childish, Sherlock, you're going to be a father, you need to grow up. - MH_

Sherlock turned off the phone and glared at it, irritated that Mycroft was doing his best to ruin this by being supportive and offering his approbation. It didn't matter, Mycroft would do what he and John wanted and smooth the bureaucratic path for them. John would be a father _with _Sherlock and he would be happy and Sherlock's life would continue to be perfect.

**tbc **


	4. Chapter 4

**AN:** As always big thanks to TsylvestrisA, my beta, who has made this a thousand times better. Any mistakes are my own because I couldn't help fiddling with it.

**Contains:** artificial insemination, masturbation, discussion of light bondage and other sexual acts.

**Part 4 - In which John and Sherlock donate some sperm and I chose smut over taste and decorum. sorry.**

As it was, the legal document Mycroft provided looked so intimidating that John not only insisted on Harry and Clara getting independent legal advice before signing it, but got some for himself as well. It all seemed above board, but exceptionally protective of Sherlock to the point that John got the impression that Mycroft was worried they were taking advantage of him. He was ok with being protective of Sherlock, so he signed and since it gave Harry and Clara full custody as well as a trust fund for the children's education, they signed too. Sherlock sneered but signed anyway.

A week later Harry called to give them a heads up that they'd be ovulating in a few days.

"So tell that sexy boyfriend of yours to keep his hands off it," she instructed John. No sex, no alcohol and no nicotine (or anything else stronger than paracetamol) for the next few days. Which theoretically shouldn't have been a problem, except they were between cases and Sherlock was in a post case slump. Ever since John had started bonking Sherlock the post-case blues hadn't been half as bad because Sherlock turned his steam engine of a brain to devising new and ingenious ways to make John have orgasms. During cases it was strictly work but afterwards, all that adrenalin and then potential energy that normally would have resulted in sulks and bullet holes in the wall, was channelled into sex. John wasn't complaining.

Now, faced with the possibility of two or three whole days with no case, no experiments and no sex, John was wondering if perhaps a trip abroad might be a good idea. Sherlock refused to get out of bed, and then when he did he lay on the sofa and complained. Then he paced. Then he started trying to talk John into sex. John trawled through the email requests looking for a job that was above a five and was even considering ringing Lestrade or Mycroft to see if they had anything for Sherlock to do at all. He threw a pile of medical journals at Sherlock and read out crime reports from the newspaper in the bid to spark some interest in an experiment or case. Sherlock just threw a cushion at his head.

* * *

John was being intolerable, Sherlock decided. He was sat there in his armchair, in his jumper and his jeans and his argyle pattern socks looking like sex personified and expected Sherlock not to _do_ anything? Every now and then John's tongue darted out, teasingly reminding Sherlock of what he was missing. It had been 14 hours, 3 minutes and 2 seconds without so much as a bit of frottage. Sherlock threw himself back on the sofa in despair and began once more cataloguing the ways he was going to have orgasms with John when this was over. He was beginning to suspect John had done something permanently to his brain, he'd never been bothered by lack of sexual intercourse until certain former army doctors and now sex bunny consulting detective's medical assistants and business managers started sucking his cock (rather prettily, he might add). He glared at said former army doctor cum sex bunny and was rewarded with a resigned look that Sherlock took as deliberately provocative.

"Stop it," Sherlock snapped.

"Stop what?"

"That look."

"What look?"

"That look you're doing?"

"All right, I'll bite, what look am I doing?" John raised his eyebrows.

"The one that says I could relieve your sexual discomfort in under two minutes but I shan't because I'm a dirty little cock tease," snapped Sherlock.

"I'm pretty sure my look didn't say that." John returned to his laptop screen.

"We all know it did."

"Whatever happened to just transport?" John looked up again.

"I DON'T KNOW! You broke me! You and your jumpers and your posterior in those jeans and that come fuck me smile and those bedroom eyes, and that thing you do with your tongue and just- you!"

John was smirking which was also intolerable. "Sorry."

"No you're not, because you like having me a slave to your cock."

"You're a slave to my cock now are you?"

"Oh it's so amusing! THIS is why I avoided sex for so long! I knew this would happen! I'd just start getting interested and then poof, taken away!"

"It's only a few days, and may I remind you, you were the one who wanted to go along with Harry and Clara's plan."

"I didn't know it would mean no sex!"

"Now you know how I feel when you're busy on a case for a week," John had the nerve to comment.

"That's completely different. At least you're allowed to masturbate."

"Hmm yeah, I suppose you have a point. Still. I think you'll live."

Sherlock didn't dignify that with a response and turned over on the sofa with a violence that he felt expressed his feelings on the matter.

"Why don't you go to Bart's and see what body parts they have lying around?"

"No, useless, Molly's replacement is insufferable. How long does maternity leave last anyway?"

"I think she said she was taking a year off."

"A year?" Sherlock turned back over in case he'd misheard John.

"I believe so." John was squinting at his laptop and not paying the proper attention to this disastrous information he was imparting.

"But! A year? How will I do my experiments?"

"I imagine you'll have to try being nice to the new morgue attendant."

Sherlock turned his back on John again at such a preposterous suggestion.

"God I wish we could have sex," he groaned.

John only chuckled in a manner which Sherlock thought was decidedly _smug, _which did nothing to help since it reminded him of John being smug after he'd made Sherlock come standing up.

* * *

Luckily a tired and somewhat harassed sounding Lestrade called an hour later, complete with screaming baby in the background, asking if they'd "take a look at this bloody case because Molly's threatened to cut off my balls if I leave her alone with Georgie today", so John was saved from having to resort to bribing the British Government or Metropolitan Police Force to give Sherlock something to do. And then the next day Harry rang to tell them she and Clara were at the right point of their cycles and they were to come over that night.

Which was easier said than done, as John was with Sherlock in the middle of a marsh at the London Wetlands Centre looking for a box, or maybe a cylinder or possibly a Canopic jar.

"Sherlock," said John, pointing at the phone. "Harry says tonight."

Sherlock stood up sharply from where he'd been poking at some reeds. "Tonight? We have to find this vessel John. Can't they wait?"

John bit back a comment about Sherlock's desperation of a day earlier, and put the mouthpiece of the phone against his shoulder. "Not really their decision Sherlock."

"Then find this bloody vessel, John!"

"We'll get back to you Harry," said John lifting the mobile again. "I'll let you know by five, ok?"

By five they'd located the thermos that had doubled as a sealed container to hold the murderer's collection of keys but were now in an industrial park in Slough chasing down the suspect. Sherlock had him in a headlock and John had just texted Lestrade to get him to send someone down when Harry rang again.

"God, I'm sorry, Harry, we're in the middle of something," said John, dodgy a flying leg from their captive.

"Handcuffs, we really need to start carrying handcuffs," said Sherlock, panting as he fought to hold the struggling man.

"I told you before Sherlock, we don't have the insurance. Harry, can I call you back. We've nearly got this wrapped up – I swear – we'll be there by seven, eight at the latest," said John, hooking the phone against his ear as he grabbed the murderer's feet.

"Eight-thirty," interjected Sherlock.

"Fine, Sherlock says eight-thirty."

"Maybe you should just knock him out," Sherlock suggested, just as the murderer managed to kick John in the stomach.

Luckily for their captive the police drew up at about that moment and Sherlock and John were able to hand him over to the attending officer. Sherlock ran through a brief explanation complete with plenty of "do keep up!"s and handed over the thermos as well.

"Well, if that's all-" said Sherlock, nodding to John and turning to leave.

"Oi, you two, you're coming down the station with us," snapped the police officer as they started to walk off.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Really, I've handed you a serial killer. You have my number. Contact my office or call DI Lestrade if you have any questions."

John handed them a business card.

"Now, if you'll excuse us," said Sherlock. "We've got two lesbians to impregnate."

The police officer blinked once, then shook his head. "Are you taking the piss?"

John sighed and started texting Harry.

Two hours later they were finally allowed to go. Sherlock jumped John the minute they were in the cab heading back to London with his normal urgent, post-case ardour. John had long since become comfortable with snogging Sherlock in public and had perfected the Captain Watson Look of Death when confronted with any sniggers or homophobic comments, usually accompanied by a guilt inducing speech about not having served his country to get this kind of attitude from wet little twats and he'd snog who he'd bloody well pleased, thank you very much. Tonight however John disengaged before the kiss could go into groping territory.

"Stand down soldier," he said, nipping Sherlock's lip. "Harry will kill me if you come in your pants."

Sherlock drew a sharp, deep breath, loaded with meaning and he spent the rest of the cab ride pointedly looking out the window. Nearly an hour after they left the Slough Police Station, they knocked on the door to Harry's house.

"Eight," said John when his sister opened the door. "See, told you we'd be here."

Harry rolled her eyes. "Come on, these eggs aren't going to wait forever."

They followed her inside, taking off their mud and pond soaked shoes and hanging up their coats.

Harry and Clara had decided to try first using a home artificial insemination kit. John had initially been expecting something clinical involving trained practitioners and a small room with porn in it. Instead Harry and Clara wanted to try at home where they'd be more comfortable but it made John feel the exact opposite. Walking into the living room, it was obvious that they'd decided to make it into a special occasion. There were candles and soothing music, nibbles and non-alcoholic beverages, a cake and balloons, but no matter how John looked at it, without the bright surgical lights, the clinical and brisk nurse, he couldn't dissociate from the fact this was all about sex and he and Sherlock were going to wank and then his sister and sister in law were going to do things with their vaginas.

Sherlock of course didn't seem bothered at all. He hugged Harry back and kissed Clara on both cheeks before sweeping into the room and depositing himself on the sofa. "We've been abstaining for the past two days, so the number of motile sperm with the greatest forward velocity should be at an optimum," he said, as if it he hadn't been lying on the sofa only a day ago badgering John for sex.

John took a breath. "Clara, hello," he said, changing the subject and turning to Harry's tall brunette wife. "How's the library?"

Clara smiled; her usual friendly self. Her dark hair was swept up in a loose knot and she was wearing a long flowing dress that hinted at the right amount of curves for her tall frame. John had always liked Clara, not in a fancying her way, like Harry teased him – yeah she was attractive, intelligent and sweet but John was more than able to admire without it being anything more. The first time he'd seen her next to Sherlock he'd had to admit that he and his sister shared the same taste in partners. Now he had to admit that, as far as gene pools went, he couldn't complain. Her green eyes sparkled with good humour as she answered. "Non-stop entertainment, and the detective business?" she said.

"Oh you know, just spent half the day wading through mud and then running around Slough. Bit same old really."

Clara laughed. "Would you like a drink? Harry has become brilliant at mocktails." She smiled fondly at her wife, who poked her tongue out in response.

"Oh!" announced Sherlock suddenly. "And John hasn't had any alcohol and I haven't used any patches for ten days. Our contributions will be in pristine condition."

"John, you're blushing," noted Harry.

"No. I'm not. Not really. Right. Let's do this then. Who's first?"

Harry and Clara looked at each other. "Well – you could go together, if you'd like?" Clara suggested.

"Oh! Together-" John looked at Sherlock and then at his sister and Clara. If it wasn't creepy enough to be wanking off in your sister's spare room, it would be even more awkward to be having sex in there with your boyfriend. And then a more horrible and panic inducing thought hit him and he suddenly became overwhelmed with paranoia that there'd be an 'oh so hilarious' sitcom style mix up with their specimen jars and he'd end up impregnating his sister. "Maybe separately, I think," he said firmly.

Sherlock gave a grunt of disapproval but John ignored him, as well as Harry's smirk as she handed him the specimen jar.

"Upstairs, second door on the left," she said. "You read that website I sent you?"

"Yeah – um, I haven't had a chance to shower-"

"There're some towels on the bed, shower's across the hall. Ok. Good luck."

"Right, thanks," said John.

Upstairs, John took a quick shower, making sure to wash his hands and dick thoroughly and then wrapping the towel around his waist, he went into the spare bedroom and shut the door. He dropped his clothes on the bed and the towel on the floor and undid the lid on the specimen jar. Right. Rub one out and hand the evidence over. He'd been wanking since he was a teenager, nothing to it.

John sat on the edge of the bed, towel on his lap and took his flaccid member in hand. The awkwardness of the situation had completely killed the post-case buzz he'd had in the cab. He was struck by how different this was to the last time he'd gotten someone pregnant – he and Mary been trying for about two months and just hadn't been finding time to even be together, so they'd gone on a mini-break for a change of scene and to take their minds of the whole thing, they'd stayed in an awful B&B and they'd been giggling about the list of rules tacked on the door and somehow they'd ended up having sex on the carpet, which was probably in violation of rule no. 4. It had been giggly and fun and not at all awkward and he'd always looked back on that afternoon fondly. As he stared at unforgiving plastic container he was supposed to fill he was pretty sure this would not be the same.

No lube, because it would affect the donation so he stroked gently, trying to get things happening without too much friction until it was needed. Nothing. John bit his lip and shut his eyes, it had been a while since he'd wanked alone and without any visual aid. Ok, Sherlock. Sherlock's hand. Sherlock's hand, doing this for him, pressing against Sherlock, licking that long white throat, mouthing at his jaw, those damn bony hips canting against his, an answering hard on at his side. John's hand moved over his growing erection. Sherlock sighing, licking at his cock, on his knees, that perfect mouth, lips parted. Firm now, hard, John leant forward, increasing the pressure, the pace. He shifted his feet further apart, bracing, tension and arousal coiling upwards. Sherlock's mouth, warm, wet, those ice blue eyes, dark with lust, wanting him, wanting his cock. John's hand moved faster as he imagined thrusting into Sherlock's welcoming mouth. No not mouth, yeah, arse, Sherlock, bent over the bed in front of him, firm round buttocks, smooth curve of his back, muscles flexing as he thrust back onto John's cock, his dark head thrown forward, panting, begging-.

John fumbled for the specimen jar and held it in place as he shuddered into orgasm.

* * *

Sherlock had spent a dull and frustrating twenty-minutes attempting not to be unpardonably rude to John's sister and her wife and trying not to think too much about what John was doing alone upstairs and trying even harder not to storm up there and join in. Finally he heard the door open upstairs, the sound of John taking a tediously long time to wash his hands, the soft sound of footfalls on the carpeted stairs and then John appeared; ears a delightful pink, cheeks flushed with a delicate glow that made something inside Sherlock growl because he should have been the cause of that.

John handed Clara the specimen jar and after exchanging a meaningful glance with Harry, the two of them rose, smiling at each other.

"All right then, back in a bit. Help yourself to cake and crisps," said Harry, as Clara took her hand and led her upstairs.

"My turn," snapped Sherlock snatching up his specimen jar and grabbing John's hand. John might have scruples about receiving hand jobs in his sister's home but he had no such qualms. Besides they were supposed to be doing this _together._ It had been forty-five hours, twenty-seven minutes and oh…forty-two seconds, since he'd last been allowed to have sex with John and he wasn't going to wait another moment.

"Oh no- I'm not helping you with that-" John did not let go of Sherlock's hand.

"John…" Sherlock said in a tone that was _not_ whiny; wheedling would be the term he'd use.

"Sherlock-"

Sherlock looked at John with the expression he'd filed under 'winsome' but John had been known to refer to as 'pouting'. John folded like a stack of cards.

"Fine! But I'm not touching it, moral support only, ok?"

"If you insist," said Sherlock accepting the challenge and they went upstairs.

* * *

"Shower for you first," said John pushing him into the bathroom and going into the spare bedroom to fetch the other towel.

He leant against the bathroom tiles, arms folded and watched as Sherlock stripped off and stepped under the shower spray. The sight of that lean, lanky body, naked and sudsy under the streaming water wasn't bad at all, and made John wish that Sherlock had maybe gone first – he would have found it all much easier after this visual aid. Having already masturbated in his sister's house, he was feeling less inhibited about the concept now. He resolutely ignored the soft giggles and murmurs coming from his sister's bedroom down the hall.

"Make sure you give your cock a good clean," he said, with a smirk and a long, hot look over Sherlock's wet body. Sherlock waggled his eyebrows back and slid his soaped up hand down over his torso leaving a trail of suds before reaching his genitals. He was already half-firm and he teased John with exaggerated strokes as he washed. John bit the inside of his mouth and watched as Sherlock let the water run over his body, rinsing off the soap, sweeping wet hair from his eyes and tilting his head back to let the water stream over his long neck and down his torso.

John was feeling half aroused again by the time Sherlock stepped from the shower and rubbed the towel roughly over his body before slinging it around his hips, his penis a thick outline against the fabric.

"John? Shall we?" he purred.

"God yeah," said John, and followed him from the room.

* * *

Sherlock dropped the towel on the floor and readied the specimen jar beside him. He refused to be embarrassed by this act. It was a simple release of bodily fluid after all – something that he had regularly done as an irritating necessity to ease tension and clear his mind, reasonably pleasurable but also a physically intrusive demand on the same scale as eating and voiding his bladder. Besides, he was doing this with John; he trusted John, and if he was honest, he enjoyed being a bit of an exhibitionist when it came to being naked around John.

Sherlock turned so that he was standing in front of where John had taken up position against the bedroom door. His eyes were dark and that tongue of his kept darting out to whet his lips in a gratifying display of arousal. Good. Sherlock had plans for John when they had finished giving their sperm to Harry and Clara. Sherlock wanted to take John home and have sex with him all night so John wouldn't remember this without thinking of Sherlock and bed and Sherlock's body, with his, in bed.

John cleared his throat. "Maybe I could give you a hand after all," he suggested.

Sherlock closed his hand around his hardening member and smirked. "No. I don't think so. I think you're going to have to stand there and watch. Stand there and watch and not touch yourself." Sherlock slid his hand gently over his erection, feeling his body respond to the stimuli. "Stand there and think about what I'm going to do to you when we get home. " He allowed himself a small sigh of pleasure as his hand moved lingeringly along the shaft.

John swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Oh, and what's that?"

"First, I'm going to strip you naked," said Sherlock, caressing the head of his cock on the upward stroke. "Then I'm going to get on my knees and take your cock in my mouth, taste you and suck you, tease you, until you're so close."

John shifted against the wall, his breathing no longer steady. "Yeah and what then?"

Sherlock settled his other hand under his balls, cupping them against his body. It was a while since he'd done this alone but his body responded promptly and efficiently to what he'd long ago established as the most effective stimulus. "Then I'm going to stop, not going let you come. I'm going to handcuff you to the bed so you can't move, can't touch yourself, can't leave –"

"Yeah-" John's voice was rough and his hands were clenched against the door. Sherlock tightened his grip, thought about John, spread before him, to do with as he pleased. _Allowing_ him to do as he pleased, _wanting_. His hips jerked and he thrust into his own hand.

"I'm going to finger your tight hole and stroke your cock until you're ready and wanting me and then I'm going to go- go and fuck your mouth until I'm hard-" Sherlock imagined gripping John's hair, pulling him up to meet his cock. John would moan, open his mouth – take him in. His hand moved steadily, feeding the arousal.

"Mmm," said John and his tongue darted out to lick his lips.

Sherlock quickened his pace, he could feel his balls tightening, the curling arousal building, tighter, stronger, low inside his being. "And then I'm going to take you, hard, fast, make you scream, make you beg, you're going to beg me to give it to you, hard, again, give you-" He was close. And John would beg him so prettily, moan and he'd make John come and John would tell him how wonderful he was, how brilliant and special and beg him to never leave, and he would kiss John's mouth and promise him and John would- "Never_- _Always be mine, always-"

"Sherlock-" John's hand had strayed to the front of his trousers.

"John-" Sherlock fumbled for the specimen container. "Kiss me, John, kiss me." He would give John everything. Everything. And John would never, never leave.

And John surged forward, and Sherlock bent his face to him, kissing him clumsily as he jerked and shuddered and emptied himself with no finesse whatsoever into the specimen container. He rested his forehead on John's shoulder, one hand holding the plastic container, the other sticky from where he'd overshot a little bit. John's arms were around him, rubbing Sherlock's back and holding him. Sherlock heard a choked sound and realised he was the one who had made it.

"It's all right, I've got you, I've got you," murmured John as if Sherlock were somehow delicate.

"John…" Sherlock straightened and sought his partner's eyes. John looked back at him, steady, determined. He suddenly felt overwhelmed; this was foolish, ridiculous, John didn't want this- John didn't -

"It's ok," John said gently, as if he could read Sherlock's mind, deduce as clearly as Sherlock ever could all the thoughts and fears that were stringing out across his consciousness. "I love you, it's ok."

"I love you too," Sherlock whispered. And John seemed to know and it _was_ ok. With a crooked smile John took the specimen jar out of Sherlock's hand and snagged the towel up off the floor and gave it to him.

Sherlock looked at him ruefully as he wiped his hand, and managed a half grin as they made eye contact. Sherlock took the container from John and quickly put the lid on. "I seem to have caught most of it," he said, giving the container a wipe as well.

"Well," said John, looking suddenly awkward.

"Well," said Sherlock. He held the container out to John. "You should give this to your sister."

John went a lovely shade of pink. "Um, yeah, can we not mention my sister when you're holding a jar of your swimmers?" He took the specimen container. A funny look crossed his features and he glanced up suddenly. "Huh. We're making our babies."

Sherlock let out a startled laugh and he searched John's expression. He seemed…not displeased.

John held up the container. "Baby Sherlock," he said, a silly, endearing look on his face.

And it was so exactly what Sherlock had wanted that he had to turn away before John could see him so undone.

* * *

John tapped on the door to Harry and Clara's room and his sister opened the door, clad only in a robe. John's brain refused to even process that thought.

"Sherlock's," he said, holding out the jar. "For God's sake, don't mix it up with mine."

Harry laughed at him and kissed him on the cheek. "Thank you Johnny."

"We'll be off. Keep us up to date."

"Of course. Go give that man of yours a good seeing to."

John blushed. "Harry-"

"The walls are really thin in this house," said Harry, raising her eyebrows meaningfully. John winced and felt his face burn even more, if that was possible. He glanced up at the ceiling as if someone might helpfully teleport him somewhere else.

"Of course they are. Obviously I will never be able to look either of you in the face again. Well, go on then, get on with getting knocked up. Say night to Clara for us."

"Night John, thanks."

Sherlock stepped out of the bathroom, fully dressed. He hesitated for a moment and John couldn't help giving him a crooked grin. This man, John's chest felt tight as warmth curled around his heart. Always be mine, Sherlock had said, John could do that. John knew then, he _would_ do that.

"All right then?" John asked, closing the distance between them.

Sherlock's lip twitched into a smirk. "Depends. Will you take me home and give me a good seeing to?"

"Apparently it's expected," said John and he looked up at Sherlock and they grinned at each other. John shook his head in amusement. "Come on," he said. "You mentioned something about handcuffs?"

"I changed my mind. I think you should have your hands free," said Sherlock, starting down the stairs.

"Really," said John with a chuckle, following after him.

"Hm, you would find it easier." Sherlock thumb flew over his phone as he dialled a taxi.

"Oh God, what are you planning now?" John asked.

Sherlock lifted his mobile to his ear, and with hand in pocket, he glanced at John. "I'd rather like you to top tonight," he said and gave John the same cocky wink he'd given the first time they'd met.

John watched him go down the stairs for a moment, practically swaggering, hand still stuck casually in his pocket as he issued instructions to the taxi company with a casual assurance that bordered on arrogance. He took a little jump off the last step and then spun around to look up at John with such vibrancy that it made John beam. Bloody hell he was gorgeous. John was his, completely.

**tbc**


	5. Chapter 5

AN: Thanks once again to my lovely hardworking beta TsylvestrisA who has done amazing things to my commas and prompted me to make this better than it was going to be. Of course I fiddled with it after so all mistakes are my own. xo.

**Part 5 - In which Sherlock and John get some news **

A few weeks later they were enjoying one of those calm companionable afternoons that fell between cases. There'd been a pleasant but quick romp in the bedroom and now Sherlock was playing his violin while he waited for an experiment that was hissing ominously in the kitchen and John was listening to him play while he read a book.

Suddenly Sherlock stopped, bow raised. "Of course! That dragon boat race we saw in Portland- don't you remember the pickpocket we - " John looked up sharply and something in his expression made Sherlock stop, his words fading.

"Not me, Sherlock," said John shortly. No, Portland had been one of the places Sherlock had been while he was away. John sometimes thought that Sherlock had deleted the fact that he'd been gone for three years, or maybe the fact that John hadn't been with him. There would be moments like these when Sherlock would say something like "Oh you remember, John, that little diamond shop in Santiago!" and John would say "Nope, that was you, wasn't there, remember." And then Sherlock would look at him as if he'd been slapped, utterly appalled, and would immediately invade John's personal space – crowding him against a wall, crawling onto his lap on the sofa - and hold him tight, face buried into his neck, for a long moment, and then he'd let go and change the subject, as if the idea that he had left John was a too awful to contemplate. It helped.

Sherlock did that now; his face paled and in an instant he crossed to John, pushing the book out of the way, straddling his lap and holding him tightly for a moment before pulling back, gripping John's face and the back of his neck and staring at him fiercely. He swallowed, jaw and expression tight. John met his eyes, his gaze softening and that seemed to be enough because Sherlock pecked him on the lips and was back to his violin almost instantly. John retrieved his book.

"So what were you saying? About the pickpocket in Portland?"

Sherlock waved the thought away. "Oh, just trying to place where I'd seen that type of ear stretcher before, the one the arsonist was wearing on Monday."

"Right."

Sherlock started playing again. He stopped. "I used to talk to you in my mind palace, while I was away," he said. "I think that's why I forget you weren't there."

John nodded, not willing to look at Sherlock right at that moment.

"I'm not sorry I faked my death, John, I can't be sorry for that. I shouldn't have tried to…be without you. I am sorry for that."

John cleared his throat and risked looking up at Sherlock. He was looking directly at John, his expression tense. John's heart pounded; he _knew_ Sherlock was sorry but it was important to hear him actually admit it. "That's because you're an idiot," John said, and gave him a crooked grin. "And I've forgiven you, by the way." He had, he realised, sometime after agreeing to this thing they had going and this moment, somewhere along the way he'd let go of the bitterness and started trusting Sherlock again.

Sherlock's smile crept across his face and turned into a beam. And John shook his head and laughed and then grinned at Sherlock again whose beam became a smirk as he raised his violin to his chin again and started playing something brisk and whimsical.

This precious, fragile moment was of course the completely wrong time for Harry to call and give them the news on their first fertilisation attempt, but that's when it happened. John fumbled in his pocket for his mobile, waving a hand at Sherlock to tell him to quiet the violin.

"Harry?"

Harry gave him the good/bad news. She was pregnant and Clara wasn't. John was surprised by how disappointed he was.

"Don't worry, we'll try again in a couple of weeks," he heard himself telling Harry. "It took me and Mary three cycles before she fell pregnant. But congratulations, Harry, that's amazing news; I'll let Sherlock know."

"Harry's pregnant," said Sherlock as soon as John had ended the call. He was sitting on the back rest of the armchair, feet on the seat, violin still in his hands. His expression was neutral.

"Yes. It seems congratulations are in order," said John, also keeping his expression neutral. He picked up his book with an attempt at casualness.

"Not Clara." It wasn't a question and Sherlock's tone had an edge.

John frowned down at his book. He kept his tone light as he answered. "No, not this time. We'll try again in a couple of weeks."

"You're upset." Sherlock's words were sharp.

"No. It's fine. We'll try again."

"And then? What if she doesn't get pregnant then?" Sherlock snapped. He stood up on the seat of the armchair and stepped onto the floor, his eyes flashing.

"Then we'll try again," John said stiffly.

"I don't understand, you got Mary pregnant. Are you sure you abstained for the full two days? How much saturated fat have you been eating?"

"Yes, of course I bloody did, and about the same as you-"

Sherlock put down his violin, agitated. "What if she doesn't get pregnant, John? We're supposed to do this together. This isn't the plan!"

John felt his stomach clench. It wasn't bad enough that he was disappointed, no, now Sherlock had to make him feel as if he'd failed. He took a deep breath and tried to speak calmly. "You knew that was a possibility Sherlock. Besides, it's only the first cycle, there's whole levels of trying, we've only just started."

Sherlock paced. "But – but _what if,_ John? I don't want to be a father! Not alone! Not without you! The whole point was for _you_ to be a father."

The fine thread of calm holding John's temper together finally snapped. He put down his book and stared at Sherlock. "You're joking, right? Because it just sounded like you said you didn't want to be a father. Bloody hell, Sherlock!" He got to his feet. "You said you wanted to do this. You said you wanted to pass on your genetic material. You said – Unbefuckinglievable. It's too late to back out now!"

"I'm not backing out – but-" Sherlock stopped, he grabbed at his hair with his hands and then sank down onto the sofa.

"But what Sherlock?"

Sherlock glared at him and furiously turned over to face the back of the sofa.

"Fine, right, let's not talk about anything." John spun on his heel. He needed to leave before he said something he might regret. "I'm going out. I need some air." He grabbed his coat.

"John?" he heard Sherlock say.

John took a deep breath. "Just, I need some air – we'll discuss it later Sherlock." And he grabbed his coat and left the flat.

He walked for a bit, furious at Sherlock and himself. He knew, _knew_ this would happen. He shouldn't have let Sherlock talk him into this. Of course Sherlock didn't want to be a father. It was some messed-up jealousy thing and he'd let Sherlock talk him into it, and now Harry was going to have Sherlock's baby and where did that leave them if Sherlock didn't want to do this after all? And then there was Clara, expecting him to follow through with their agreement. Fuck, Mycroft had tried to tell him this was what would happen, it was why he'd drawn up the contract so Sherlock would have absolutely zero responsibility. And like an idiot he'd thought it would be fine and it had seemed perfect.

He stepped into a pub and found a pint and a quiet corner and sat down to try to sort his head out.  
He'd have to speak to Clara and Harry. Maybe they'd stop this now. Harry would have her baby. He could be an uncle and Sherlock could safely ignore the child. The thought made him feel unexpectedly bitter.

And the thing was, he'd actually been a bit excited, a bit hopeful after they'd made the donation, had started thinking about having a baby, thinking about how it would work – that they could turn his old bedroom into a nursery for visits and take the kids out to the zoo - and then to not only find out that he wasn't an expectant father yet but the bloke he loved _was_ and didn't want to be after all just made it worse. John scrubbed his hand over his face. Fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck. It was a mess. Clara was counting on him. John remembered the hope and disappointments for the few months that he and Mary had tried. He imagined it must be hard for Harry now, wanting to be happy but not wanting to hurt Clara's feelings, and for Clara, trying to be happy for Harry when she was feeling disappointed. No wonder Harry had been subdued when she rang.

John fiddled with his phone, wondering if he should call Harry. But how shitty would that be: 'Hey Harry, the idea of you being pregnant has put us off the idea completely, sorry about that'? Harry would be too sensitive and hormonal at the moment to take that kind of thing well. John thought of Mary, how tired and up and down she'd been those first weeks, and how once the morning sickness hit he'd had to walk on eggshells as the slightest thing could cause a row. No, not a good time to talk about this…but if not now, when? Clara would be expecting him to make a donation again this month.

John suddenly remembered the morning when he'd found out Mary was pregnant. He'd been utterly petrified, suddenly overwhelmed by the reality that they were having a child. He'd tried not to let Mary see and after a bit her enthusiasm had overcome his nerves.

John bit his lip, hand frozen on his mobile. He ran through the argument with Sherlock again. Okay. All right. Okay. Maybe Sherlock was just scared shitless. Maybe he just needed to know that John was going to be on board with this even if Clara didn't get pregnant.

So, what then? One thing John knew for certain now: he did want a child but not at the expense of his relationship. Okay, so maybe Sherlock was just scared and needed to know that John was going to be there for him, okay. That was good. John could deal with that. And if that was the case then John would be okay with this; okay with trying some more and hoping some more and maybe becoming a father too.

John sighed. It still came back to Sherlock's motives, though. The argument today just showed that Sherlock wasn't doing this because he wanted a child, but because he wanted John to be a father. No matter how many times John told Sherlock that he only wanted him, Sherlock still couldn't get past the fact that John was primarily straight and had once had a wife. And John couldn't erase his feelings for Mary just to make Sherlock feel better. He'd loved Mary and he had mourned Mary, and yeah, he'd wanted to be a father with Mary and do all those crazy domestic things that were pretty much inconceivable with Sherlock. And honestly, his life with Mary was what it was, his life with Sherlock was what _it_ was. He regretted neither and had accepted both wholeheartedly. He'd understood exactly what he was giving up when he decided to pursue a relationship with Sherlock and had made his peace with that. No matter how many times he said it though, Sherlock just didn't seem to believe it.

And if Sherlock found a way to give John one of the things he thought he wouldn't have any more, then what did it matter? Did it matter if Sherlock didn't actually want to be involved with the child he sired? Really? Some people would think that would be for the best.

John looked up with a start as a tall, familiar figure suddenly loomed over him.

"Why you insist on going to public bars when you're in a snit with me, I don't know," Sherlock said."The noise is appalling and the smell worse. And you can't even get decent second-hand smoke anymore."

"Me in a snit? I'm not the one sulking on the sofa."

"Well, I'm hardly doing that now, am I?" Sherlock sat down in the chair opposite.

"No. So?"

Sherlock sighed. "I still want to be a father."

John nodded and studied his pint glass. Part of him just wanted to just agree, to ignore all the ifs and maybes that had been crowding him. But this was important, and he couldn't keep just pretending it was going swimmingly. He heard himself speaking. "What was that all about then? Were you just scared about Harry's news?"

"Scared? Hardly. What's so frightening? Thousands of people do this every day." Sherlock's tone was acidic but he shifted uncomfortably.

John licked his lip and watched Sherlock. The tension in the man's posture was palpable. "Well, either you're scared or you're being a complete arse. And this is my sister we're talking about here so there's going to be an issue if it's the second that's the case."

Sherlock let out a sharp breath and crossed his arms. "Fine! I am uncharacteristically perturbed by this concept."

"Okay. That's okay. What- "

"It's a _person,_ John. Oh, not yet, obviously, but potentially, and of course the pregnancy may not run to term but it if does there'll be a _person_. Another human being carrying some of my genetic code. And what if they're – what if they're like me too? What if they want to know me, want me to like them? What if I don't like them, John? I hate babies. What if I hate _this_ baby? And you- You have to love the baby, John, because what if I can't?"

John bit his lip. Yep, shit-scared. He let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. "It's…I'll be there, okay?" He took Sherlock's wrist. "You know, when I found out I was going to be a father…before…all I could think about was what if they had a problem, a birth defect, I didn't know if I could handle it, be the kind of person who would be good about it, deal with it the right way. I didn't know. It terrified me."

Sherlock's eyes widened and John could have kicked himself the moment he'd said it, because now Sherlock was off on that tangent. "What if it has a birth defect, John? Or what if it's stupid? Not lovably stupid, like you, but frustratingly ignorant? How-"

"Sherlock, stop."

Sherlock pulled his hand away from John and his fingers tapped at the table in agitation. His gaze darted about the room before falling on John's face. "It won't be your baby," he said. "And if you _can't_ with Clara…you'll find someone else to have one with – you'll realise you need a woman, a wife, and you'll stop-" He breathed in sharply and looked away with a frown.

Ah. John reached his hand across and touched his fingertips to Sherlock's. "Sherlock, don't." Sherlock met his eyes. "I'm not going to stop wanting you. I can't."

Sherlock looked back at him, jaw tight. "You like women. You've bent your personal rules for me, made me the exception, but you still like women. Don't deny it."

John felt suddenly helpless. He sat back in his chair and ran his hand through his hair in frustration. How could he make Sherlock believe him? "Okay, yeah, in general I'm sexually attracted to women. But I can't imagine _you_ haven't noticed I'm also pretty interested in your cock…and your mouth…and your hands..." John licked his bottom lip and ignored the flush of warmth in his cheeks. "And your arse. I'm not missing out on anything, I'm really not."

Sherlock's expression softened and his mouth slid into a smirk. "Admittedly your sexual activity has increased by at least a factor of 10 since we started having sex."

John shook his head and glanced up at Sherlock. "I'm okay with going ahead with this fatherhood thing but not if the only reason is because you're scared I'll run off with a woman if I don't."

Sherlock turned his face away. "Don't be ridiculous."

"Well, that's what it seems like."

"I want you to have everything, John. Everything you want. Is that so wrong?"

John paused, considering. Were his reasons any different to Sherlock's? He'd agreed to this because he wanted to make Sherlock happy; Sherlock wanted to do it so that John would be happy. "I want you, actually. Kids would be, yeah, kind of nice, but not if it means I don't have you."

Sherlock looked at him. "You have me." His mouth twisted as he considered his words. "If Clara doesn't fall pregnant…the child will be ours, John. Not just mine. It has to be ours."

John swallowed. He finally understood what was bothering Sherlock. "I'm going to be a father with you," he said. "So if only Harry has a baby, so we'll only have one baby. I'm your partner, and your child will be my child. It will be okay." He managed a half grin. "Even if you hate the baby."

Sherlock took John's hand in his and spread it flat, examining his palm. "I'll be a terrible father."

"In that case, Harry and Clara will stop asking you to babysit."

Sherlock's lips twisted into a smile. John raised his eyebrows. "Okay?"

Sherlock curled John's hand closed and covered it with his own. His brows were still drawn together into a light frown as he considered their joined hands. "Yes. Okay?"

John nodded. He put his other hand over Sherlock's. "Want to take home the strange bloke you picked up at the pub?"

The side of Sherlock's mouth quirked up. "If you're referring to the short war veteran with the hideous jumper and the come-fuck-me smile, then obviously."

John licked his bottom lip and flashed said come-fuck-me smile. "Right. Let's go then."

Sherlock stood, drawing John up with him and still holding his hand led him out of the pub.  
It wasn't that far home, but even so it seemed to take far too long before finally the door to their flat was shut behind them.

They kissed for a long and breathless moment. Sherlock slid his hands to John's hips as he drew back with a smirk. "You realise this means that this time you'll have to abstain by yourself."

John groaned. "Fuck."

"Oh no, John, hands off for two days prior, remember?" If Sherlock could look more smug, John didn't want to know about it.

John raised his eyebrows. "Maybe you'd better help with the, uh, sample, this time. Seemed to work for you."

Sherlock raised one brow speculatively. "Mm, maybe I'll just watch you, and then you can get on your knees when you're finished." Sherlock tilted his hips against John's and slid his arms completely around his waist.

John kissed his chin and his hand moved down to Sherlock's arse. "Maybe, if you talk me through it."

"You like the sound of my voice, don't you?" Sherlock's smile was cocky and he rocked against John, just so.

John took a breath, mouthed at Sherlock's throat. "Yeah…"

Sherlock's breath was hot against John's ear and his voice was pitched deep and low, reverberating straight to John's groin as he spoke. "Mm, maybe we should practise, to formulate the most efficient pitch and dynamics for achieving ejaculation." John shivered as Sherlock's tongue flickered against his earlobe and the sensitive skin below on his neck.

John ground his hips against Sherlock. "God…you...just."

"No?" Sherlock nibbled at John's ear lobe.

John pulled back. "Bedroom. And keep talking."

* * *

As it was, John had to manage the donation alone because Sherlock was stuck on a case in the Lake District and couldn't get back. They tried twice this time, once just as Clara ovulated and again two days later. This time it worked.

When Harry told John the news, he was oddly underwhelmed. His excitement had diminished with the first failure and then the two successive donations – awkward and alone – had done nothing to build it up again. Sherlock, on the other hand, seemed to feel otherwise and John scarcely had a chance to hang up the call before he was pounced on and kissed into the couch.

"Good then?" he asked weakly as Sherlock assaulted his clavicle.

"Very good," Sherlock growled, as if John had finally decided to be agreeable and fertilise Clara's egg instead of missing on purpose. For some reason this seemed hilarious - maybe it was sudden onset post-paternal-news nerves - and John started laughing. Sherlock pulled up to glare at him.

"Oh just-" John said. He studied Sherlock's face. "It's good. It's fine." It was. They would do this together.

Sherlock looked at him for a long moment and then, finding whatever it was he was looking for, kissed him again.

**tbc**


	6. Chapter 6

**AN: **As usual, big thanks to my lovely beta, TsyvelstrisA, for proof reads and suggestions and being generally wonderful. Of course I tweaked afterwards so all mistakes are my own.

**Part 6 - In which John asks a question.**

Sherlock's proposal two months into their relationship had been more of a passing comment than an actual question. They'd been sitting in the emergency room of the A&E and John was waiting to get a gash on his arm stitched. Sherlock had declared himself John's next of kin while he was filling out his forms and John had noticed.

"Huh, I guess you are," he said.

"Of course I am. Who else would you call?"

This had been true and John had said so.

"We should just get married and then there'd be no question," Sherlock had said.

"I suppose not. Maybe."

"That's hardly a yes, John."

"Oh, were – what? Sorry–blood loss. Um–"

"Marriage, John, it's a simple enough question. Yes?"

"Now? We've only been shagging for two months."

Sherlock had sulked the whole way home.

Now they'd been together for well over a year and John's thoughts on the matter were a bit different. Not that he was taking Mycroft's subtle-as-a-brick hint, but John _had _taken Harry's words to heart about marriage being a way to show Sherlock once and for all that he wasn't waiting for a woman to come along. Sherlock's comments from a few weeks earlier had only confirmed to John that he needed to show Sherlock that he wanted to be with him for…well…forever.

He would ask Sherlock to marry him. He couldn't see himself ever not wanting to be with Sherlock, didn't want to imagine living without him again, wanted to grow old with him. And he'd promised to be a parent with him.

He felt surer about Sherlock being in his life than he'd felt even about Mary. That had been different: Mary had been safe and solid and he'd been lost. Marriage had been the anchor he wanted and needed. He didn't feel lost with Sherlock. He knew he was where he wanted to be.

It wasn't that he desperately needed to tie Sherlock to him. Marrying Sherlock wouldn't achieve that anyway; John knew bureaucracy wouldn't make Sherlock stay anywhere he didn't want to be. John hadn't worried about marriage because he'd just thought it wouldn't change Sherlock's feelings towards him at all. He would love John or he wouldn't; he would stay or he wouldn't. Now John wondered if it _would_ matter after all. If he didn't let Sherlock know that he was irrevocably tied to him and willing to sign on the dotted line, then maybe Sherlock's insecurity would slowly erode his feelings. Maybe he would leave. John's stomach twisted at the thought.

Which was why, a few days after they'd heard the good news about Clara's pregnancy, he now had a set of matching wedding rings burning a hole in his pocket. He knew he wouldn't be able to keep them a secret from Sherlock long so if he wanted a surprise proposal, he'd have to do it fast. He walked around the block twice before going up to the flat, trying to decide when and where. He'd asked Mary to marry him at the restaurant where they'd had their first date, but that would mean Angelo's in his and Sherlock's case and John wasn't sure he could cope with that.

In the end he decided he'd just carry the rings with him and wait for a meaningful moment.  
Sherlock was throwing on his coat just as John walked in the door.

"John – case, St Paul's Cathedral."

"Really? What's happened?"

"Some objects have gone missing from the Object Collection."

John raised his eyebrows and followed him back down the stairs.

The job was very sensitive, lucrative and fairly routine; Sherlock soon identified the thief as a visiting academic. Case wrapped up, they walked out of the South Entrance into London at nightfall.

"Hey, it's a nice night, let's go for a walk," said John suddenly.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows but fell in beside him. John led the way onto the Millennium Bridge and they headed towards the Tate Modern, walking in companionable silence. Lights were coming on over the city and the view was pleasant. John felt suddenly nervous, just as he'd felt before he'd proposed to Mary. It was nerve-wracking even when there were good odds that the other person would say yes; John had no idea how he'd manage when he wasn't sure of the response. He ran through words in his head, trying to decide on what he'd say.

"Yes," said Sherlock suddenly.

John jumped and stopped. "What?"

Sherlock stopped as well. "I'm going to say yes."

John finally managed to get his mouth under control and closed it. "Sherlock–damn it –"

"You're planning on proposing in the next few minutes, you're nervous, I was just trying to reassure you that I'll say yes."

"I _know_ you'll say yes, well, I'm 99% sure, but–that's not–" John stepped out of the main thoroughfare. He sighed. He fished the rings out of his pocket and got on one knee. "Sherlock Holmes, you impossible, brilliant, sexy-as-all-fuck man, I love you and I will always love you. I want to spend the rest of my life being alternately infuriated and enthralled by you. Would you do me the honour of being my husband? Please."

Sherlock licked his bottom lip, an arrested expression on his face. He took the ring box and opened it.

"Blokes don't really do engagement rings so I bought us ones for our wedding. I can exchange them if you don't like them–" John began.

"No, they're…they're fine." And Sherlock tucked the box into his pocket and held out his hand. John took it and Sherlock pulled him to his feet. "John," said Sherlock softly, searching John's face. John swallowed. And then Sherlock's face creased into a shy smile. "Yes."

John gave a half laugh and grinned in relief and Sherlock grinned back.

"Good. That's good," said John.

Sherlock nodded and reached up a hand to cup John's jaw and kissed him.

A small crowd had gathered without John realising it until suddenly there was whistling and clapping and calls of congratulations. John glanced up, blushed, grinned and waved and then got back to kissing Sherlock for a bit.

There was a ding on Sherlock's phone and then one on John's. Sherlock pulled back and glanced at his phone.

"Mycroft, congratulating us."

And John frowned, then glanced up, saw a CCTV camera and shook his head with a laugh.

"Right, of course. Well, I did tell him he'd be the first to know."

"Hmm, he'll be planning his outfit for the wedding as we speak," said Sherlock with a smirk.

John grinned. "He did seem really keen. He's probably wants to be maid of honour."

Sherlock sniggered and then they both looked up at the CCTV camera and waved. The camera turned away.

"Come on, let's go home so I can have sex with my fiancé," said Sherlock.

"Only if my fiancé can join in," said John. "I think your fiancé would like very much to suck my fiancé's cock."

"As long as my fiancé gives your fiancé a good hard rogering first."

"Definitely can be arranged," said John. "Come on."

* * *

Sherlock pressed John up against the door once they were in the entry hall, kissing him hard. He insinuated his knee between John's and was gratified to feel his arousal press hard against his thigh. After a moment, however, John pushed back lightly. "Mrs Hudson's already told us off once for going at it in the front hall. Do you want to give her heart palpitations?"

This did not signify to Sherlock at that moment and he was about to say something rude when he stopped. "Mrs Hudson!" he exclaimed and grabbed John's hand, pulling him to the door of Mrs Hudson's flat and rapping on it smartly.

Mrs Hudson opened the door. "Sherlock? What's all that racket for? You and John aren't having blowjobs in the hall again are you?"

John turned a lovely shade of pink and started stuttering a denial. Sherlock cut him off. "Mrs Hudson, John and I are getting married and he's going to be a father to my baby."

Mrs Hudson blinked for a moment, her hand fluttering to her mouth before opening her arms wide. "Oh, Sherlock! That's wonderful! My boys!" And she pulled both Sherlock and John into an embrace.

Sherlock hugged back. If there was anyone aside from John whom he liked to hug, it was Mrs Hudson. She reminded him a bit of Mummy but more of Nanny Fletcher, who had always worn crotcheted things and smelt like Dettol and lavender. She'd had a strong, wiry grip for an old lady too, just like Mrs Hudson. Finally she released her hold on Sherlock's arm and stared at them in puzzlement. "A baby! But how are you going to do that? You'll get one of those surrogates, I expect?"

"John's sister and her wife are expecting our children," Sherlock explained.

"It's early days yet," John said, shooting him a look that Sherlock ignored. "We were going to wait until three months before we told you. Just in case."

"Oh how lovely! I always wanted children but Mr H–well, he had a problem with his swimmers, you know, and he was set against me getting a sperm donor-"

Sherlock did not want to hear about Mrs Hudson having anything to do with sperm. It seemed indecent. "You shall be our babies' adopted grandmother, Mrs Hudson."

"Oh, that's lovely, dear, but I won't be babysitting, mind. I'm not your nanny, after all."

"Of course not, Mrs Hudson," said John. Sherlock liked how John said all the right things; it saved him bothering.

"And when are you getting married? Oh dear, you won't be having one of those registry weddings, will you?" Mrs Hudson's handkerchief had made an appearance and she dabbed at her eyes a bit.

"Well, we might…we haven't really discussed it," said John glancing at Sherlock. "But you'll be invited wherever we have it."

Mrs Hudson fluttered her handkerchief again and made sad happy sounds. "Oh!"

"Well, we just wanted to pop 'round and tell you the good news," said John kindly. John was good at being kindly for a person who could shoot a man dead from a building away. It was anomalies like this about John that fascinated Sherlock continuously. He was truly extraordinary.

John, Sherlock thought, was rather like a superhero. Sherlock was always Sherlock unless he was _acting,_ but sometimes John was mild-mannered jumper-wearing Dr Watson and then at others he was beating someone over the head with his service weapon. John hadn't even hesitated when he'd flung himself at Moriarty at the pool whilst everyone else who'd been in Moriarty's grip had cried and begged. And it was all tucked away under a soft, cuddly, unassuming exterior that people stupidly overlooked and underestimated. It was like having a secret John that only Sherlock knew about.

Yet on another level Sherlock liked that John could be so ordinary. So ordinary and normal, so nice and likable and generally attractive in an average sort of way (if you were a moron and thought John's sunbeam smile was average, that is), yet he still thought Sherlock was brilliant and amazing and not weird or a freak. When he thought of John like that, he felt as if the popular boy at school fancied him after all.

This line of thought was having a marked effect on his libido and he was in danger of embarrassing himself in front of Mrs Hudson if they didn't leave immediately.

"Sorry, Mrs Hudson, we have to go. We'll send you an invitation to the wedding. Come, John," he said, gripping his elbow and dragging him away as he was still apologising and saying goodnight to Mrs Hudson.

"Sherlock! That was rude," said John.

Sherlock heard the click and rattle of Mrs Hudson locking her door and putting the chain across. And then he crowded John against the wall beside the stairs. "Couldn't wait," he said, nipping at John's lips. "To touch you."

John kissed him back, weaving his fingers in Sherlock's hair. "What brought this on?"

"Nothing," Sherlock told him, grinding up against him, insinuating his leg between John's again. "Just you."

John laughed a bit at this, as if he couldn't really believe it which struck Sherlock as odd, because who wouldn't want to touch John? He'd only done so poorly with girlfriends in the past because Sherlock had been doing his level best to undermine those relationships.

"Upstairs," said John, tucking a hand in Sherlock's belt and tugging. Sherlock let him lead him upstairs until they were safely behind the door to their flat and then Sherlock set about stripping him bare.

Later, when lust and rambunctiousness had quieted into something slower and more intimate, Sherlock stilled, holding steady in his position astride John, hilt deep on his cock. John was looking up at him with dark eyes, his face flushed and his hair damp, and something hurt inside his chest because John was too wonderful and John was his.

"Beautiful," said John, reaching up to touch Sherlock's face.

"I –" Sherlock began, but words failed him. He frowned and then John smiled, eyes crinkling, head tilting to one side, and Sherlock didn't need words after all. He touched his nose to John's and began to move again, long, slow movements.

"I love you," said John. "I really do."

And Sherlock swallowed and then kissed him. "Ask me again," he said. "Tell me you want me to marry you again."

"Will you marry me, Sherlock?" John asked.

"Yes," said Sherlock, rocking his hips.

John's breath caught. "Will you let me follow you around for the rest of your life?" John asked, his hands falling to Sherlock's hips as he began to move above him. "Let me ask stupid questions and get a hard on just watching you explain how bloody simple –" John bit his lip as Sherlock sank down again. " –it all was."

"Yes –" Sherlock's breath hitched.

John's teeth flashed as he managed a grin between panted gasps. "Will you let me nag you about eating and sleeping and the mess you made in the kitchen and your violin playing at –" A pause as Sherlock slid home. " –3am?"

Sherlock grinned his most wolfish grin. "Yes."

" –let me call you brilliant and amazing and wonderful and suck your –" John had to stop speaking for a moment then as Sherlock squeezed with his inner muscles, and John groaned. " –huh – uh –cock –"

"Yes –" Sherlock leaned forward and braced himself over John and picked up the rhythm. John bucked his hips up in time, thrusting up now on Sherlock's downward stroke.

"Fuck – will you –"John's tongue peeped out and he gripped Sherlock's hips so hard it was painful. Sherlock nipped at John's bottom lip.

"Yes –"

"Sherlock –" John's proposal had devolved into one word sentences punctuated by curses and groans.

"Yes –"

"Marry –"

"Yes –" Sherlock reached for his own cock.

"God, fuck, Sherlock –"

"Yes –" Quicker now, long strokes –

"Bloody, bleeding, fuck, marry me, Sherlock –"

"Yes!" And Sherlock slammed down onto John's cock as his orgasm hit him and he rode it out, burying his face into his neck, holding him tight, close.

"Oh fuck, oh –Sherlock –"

And Sherlock could feel John come inside him, claiming him as his fingers tightened about his own and his body tensed and John pressed his forehead to Sherlock's shoulder and bit back sounds that undid Sherlock completely. "Yes, John, my John, yes," he panted, rocking through John's orgasm.

They lay there for a moment, tangled and sticky and warm and sweaty and panting. Sherlock rolled off, trying to catch his breath.

"Shit!" John swore suddenly. "I was supposed to blow you, sorry."

"Doesn't matter, that was good," murmured Sherlock looking at him. He caught John's eye and they grinned at each other.

"A bit, fucking amazing, yeah," said John.

"Marry me, John Watson," said Sherlock. And John looked at him and his grin turned into an odd, trembly smile.

"Yeah, all right," he said quietly.

And Sherlock stole his hand and kissed the knuckles and then his wrist, and then they curled around each other and drifted off into sleep.

tbc


	7. Chapter 7

Thanks again to the lovely TsylvestrisA, beta extradorinaire, who's proof reads and suggestions are invaluable - of course I've fiddled after the fact so all mistakes are my own!

**Part 7**

"So, our wedding," said John, as they lay in bed the next morning, drinking tea and enjoying being naked and lazy. "Do you want bridesmaids and all that?"

"Do you?" asked Sherlock, scanning the classifieds section of the newspaper for God knew what.

They glanced at each other and burst into laughter. "Ceremony down at the registrar's and a bit of a party after?" John suggested instead.

"Against the wishes of Mrs Hudson? Bite your tongue," Sherlock said piously.

"Garden wedding?" John suggested putting down his section of the paper.

"Something meaningful. New Scotland Yard," suggested Sherlock, setting aside the newspaper and lying back on his pillow, arms folded behind his head.

"No." John took a sip of his tea.

"That spot on the Thames where we're always finding bodies?"

"Funny. Nope and if you say Bart's I'm calling it off."

"I wasn't going to say Bart's. How insensitive do you think I am? Although the morgue has a nice atmosphere."

"Registrar's," said John firmly.

"Mrs Hudson will have to cope," agreed Sherlock.

"What's the waiting period for a civil partnership anyway?" John put down his tea cup on the bedside table and turned onto his side towards Sherlock.

"Fifteen days," said Sherlock, also turning.

"We can do it later this month, then," said John, beginning to explore the bits of Sherlock that were above the sheet.

"Honeymoon?" Sherlock asked rubbing his calf against John's.

John edged his thigh in between Sherlock's. "If you won't get bored. Greece is a bit nice this time of the year."

Sherlock rolled and pinned John under him. He held himself over him, cock to cock, stomach to stomach, and shifted, just once. "Hmm. I'm a bit over travelling. I suppose staying at home and investigating a murder wouldn't be an acceptable form of celebration."

John scraped his fingernails down Sherlock's sides, making him shiver and raising goosepimples on his fair skin. "Um, no. But we don't have to leave the country. There's always the beach, or we could go back up to Dartmoor or the Lake District."

Sherlock dipped his mouth to the soft skin next to John's collarbone. "Ever been sailing?"

"No. You?" said John, taking both their erections in hand.

"Grandfather used to take us when we were boys." Sherlock thrust gently, sliding against him.

"We can do that if you like," John murmured, his breath uneven.

Sherlock groaned softly. "As long as there's plenty of time for debauching my new husband, I don't particularly care."

* * *

Harry put paid to any idea of a quickie wedding when John called to tell her and Clara the news.

"No, there's no way you can have a proper wedding in three weeks," Harry said after a lot of excited screaming.

"We don't want to make a big deal of it," said John.

"Bull. Shit. John Hamish Watson. Treat that man you're going to marry with some respect and throw a decent party."

"Sherlock isn't a party person." Luckily the non-party person in question was out of the flat at that moment, bothering Molly's maternity-leave replacement over at Bart's.

"Remember your and Mary's wedding?" Harry said, making John wish he'd never mentioned the whole Sherlock's-jealous-of-Mary thing.  
John sighed. "All right, point taken. We'll have as big a wedding as I had with Mary, okay, and do not even say that in front of Sherlock or I will throttle you."

Harry laughed. "Let us plan it. It will be our present for helping out, with, you know…the donations and everything."

"I think two babies at the end will be thanks enough, Harry," said John.

"Yeah, stupid, you know what I mean. Pretty please?"

John sighed. "I'll talk to Sherlock."

He forgot about the question until later that night when they were cuddled up in bed, drifting off to sleep in a post-coital haze.

"Oh, yeah. Harry wants us to plan the wedding for us."

Sherlock grimaced. "Must she?"

"She feels I won't do it justice. And let's be honest, we're not exactly party planners. I thought we'd do some nibbles and wine."

"It doesn't matter, as long as you're there." Sherlock shrugged. "But if she insists; I have no particular feeling on the matter."

"Sure? It will save us worrying about it at any rate."

Sherlock shrugged. "I can stand another month of buggering my fiancé."

"I wouldn't mind making the after-party a bit special… and if you wanted to do something at the ceremony, I'd be okay with that. No bridesmaids but maybe we should have best men or women or whatever."

"Hmm. Is this essential to your wedding-day happiness?"

John chuckled. "Not really, but you know, your wedding is supposed to be special. I'm only marrying you once. We can have whatever you want."  
Sherlock grunted, then shifted so he could nuzzle John's neck properly. "I would like to dance with you."

"All right. We'll have dancing."

He could feel Sherlock's grin against his shoulder. "Mmm, I get to have whatever I want?"

"Within reason," said John quickly.

Sherlock flipped over onto his back. "Fantastic. I'll make a list."

John blinked. "Okay. Well, I'll let you talk to Harry about that. Just don't spend our life savings, all right?"

* * *

Mycroft came around personally the next day to offer congratulations.

"Have you considered a prenuptial agreement?" Mycroft asked.

John shot a look at Sherlock. "No. Do you want one, Sherlock?"

"No. Don't interfere, Mycroft."

"I wouldn't dream of it," said Mycroft. "I only ask because you have slightly complicated joint assets-"

"Mycroft," growled Sherlock.

"All right!" said John standing up. "Well, thanks again for popping by, Mycroft. I suppose Sherlock hasn't bothered to tell you yet that you're going to be an uncle?"

"No, he hasn't, but one understands that it's customary to wait a prudent length of time, three months at least, before imparting the good news."

"No, I just couldn't be bothered," said Sherlock.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "As suspected. Well, congratulations are in order for that happy news too." He got to his feet, umbrella in hand.

"Thanks, Mycroft," said John. "We'll keep you up to date."

"Thank you, John. Goodbye." He started towards the door.

Sherlock glared in his general direction, then rolled his eyes with a dramatic sigh. "Harry is organising the wedding. You can come but don't mention a prenup again or I'll personally escort you out."

Mycroft stopped at the door and turned. His lips twitched into what may well have been a smile. "Thank you, Sherlock," he said. "I will see you on the happy day. John, send me the details please."

"Will do," said John and shut the door behind him.

"I don't want a prenup, John," said Sherlock. "Don't even think of leaving me."

John went and stood behind Sherlock's chair and put his arms around his shoulders, and when Sherlock looked up at him, kissed him firmly on the forehead. "I won't and I don't want a prenup either. And if you leave me, I will hunt you to the ends of the earth and do bad things that Mycroft will be forced to kill me for, so don't."

"Really?" Sherlock seemed pleased at this threat.

"Believe it," said John and kissed him again on the forehead.

"Mm," said Sherlock. His eyes glittered. "Would those bad things involve handcuffs by any chance?"

John shifted around the arm chair so he was leaning over Sherlock. He leaned close to his ear and whispered. "Oh yes."

Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed. "And maybe the riding crop?" For someone who had been avowedly celibate up until he and John had embarked on their sexual relationship, Sherlock was very comfortable with discovering his sexual peccadilloes. John could honestly say he'd never been with anyone as adventurous and comfortable to be with in the bedroom. He'd discovered fairly early on that Sherlock had a kink for his Captain Watson persona and didn't mind a bit of light bondage and sadomasochism to go with it. John was okay with that.

"On that pale white arse of yours, until you begged for mercy." John shifted his knee forward between Sherlock's thighs.

"What would I beg?" Sherlock's voice was low and rough.

John brushed his lips over Sherlock's earlobe as he answered. "Beg me to fuck you until you couldn't walk and then some."

"Mmm. And would you let me come?"

"Not until you were moaning and hard and panting and I'd already come inside that tight, tight arse of yours…twice." John drew back so he could see Sherlock's face.

Sherlock's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. "Mmm. Maybe you should _show_ me," he said, his eyes flickering up to catch John's. "So I get a clear understanding…of what…exactly…this…entails."

John swallowed. "Yeah…okay," he breathed and pulled Sherlock to his feet.

* * *

Five months later and life at 221B Baker Street was, for all intents and purposes, the poster child for domestic bliss. Sherlock and John had been married in a surprisingly restrained wedding, despite John's misgivings. The ceremony had been a simple one in the registry office, followed by a reception at Angelo's. Greg and Molly had been their witnesses but they hadn't had best men since the only person Sherlock wanted in that role was John and John had felt pretty much the same. The guest list had been small: Molly and Greg; Mike Stamford and his wife, Lisa; Mrs Hudson; Mycroft; Harry and Clara; two doctors and the practice manager from John's old practice; and a couple of mates of John's from the army. They'd both worn tuxes. Sherlock had waltzed with John. Mrs Hudson, Mike, Harry and Molly had all cried. Later, John had even seen Sherlock shake Mycroft's hand. It had been about exactly right.

They'd gone sailing around the Greek Islands for two weeks and even Sherlock had come back with a tan. And then there were cases and babies due in only a few months and they were together.

John sometimes woke up tangled up with long limbs and a lanky body and wondered at how his life had become so happy. And then he'd worry for a bit because he remembered all too well when it had been the exact opposite, and _this_ couldn't possibly last.

Harry and Clara's pregnancies had progressed with the usual nausea, anti-stretchmark creams, sore boobs, parenting books, extraneous advice and pelvic pain. Their scans and test results had all been reassuringly boring and during their second ultrasounds it had been discovered with reasonable certainty that Harry was expecting a rather tall little girl and Clara a not-so-small baby boy. Sherlock had looked as pleased as Punch to be having one of each and John had to admit that he was a bit chuffed about that as well. They agreed to keep the genders a secret until the births; Harry and Sherlock couldn't be bothered with secrecy but Clara had heard too many stories of the scans being wrong to trust them completely, while John didn't want to trust anything until he had two healthy babies in his arms.

John had taken to visiting regularly to help with the groceries, the housework, heavy lifting, foot rubs and the DIY tasks required to paint and furnish a nursery for two. He had liked being useful and helpful and appreciated for performing stereotypically manly tasks. Sherlock didn't usually come but that was okay. John had invited him before but he always something more important to do, or just didn't want to. And, in actual fact, John hadn't minded. Helping Clara and Harry had been _his_ thing. And although it brought back memories about a time when he was doing the same things and preparing for the same arrival with a wife of his own, they were warm and fond and only tinged at the edges with pain. In a way he felt like he had a second chance.

Life was good.

* * *

John was spending far too much time at Clara and Harry's. He scurried over to their townhouse three out of every five days on average and was never around when Sherlock wanted him. Surely a weekly progress email would suffice? Was it strictly necessary to check up on them in person? And since when did John enjoy home renovation? Sherlock eyed him suspiciously every time he walked in the door. Of course he didn't need to be told what John had been up to: painting, constructing flat-pack nursery furniture, grocery shopping _for other people_ when at his own flat they were out of milk again, using some sort of patchouli based lotion to rub _other people's feet_ (when was the last time John had rubbed _his_ feet, or shoulders, or back, or cock for that matter? All right, that was last night, but still). And he couldn't say anything because this had been his idea and John would get miffed and there'd be Words. Sherlock curled up into a little ball on the sofa and had a sulk.

Oh, the pregnancies themselves were interesting enough. Sherlock had been allowed to come along to the ultrasounds and had been given access to test results and made privy to various important decisions – home births, apparently, he and John were permitted to attend as long as he didn't say anything (_honestly, _he said _one _thing about Harry's navel during the last ultrasound and suddenly he was under a speech embargo). John was Clara and Harry's back-up support person and therefore required to attend appointments when one of the women wasn't available – another imposition, because apparently that was more important than attending a stakeout for the missing wife of a lottery winner. What was the point of having a husband if he wasn't there to make surveillance work more interesting?

Sherlock uncurled from his little ball enough to check his mobile. No messages – he knew logically that there wouldn't be any, since he hadn't heard the message notification tone – but he irrationally checked anyway.

_Bored. Need my husband to perform husbandly duties – SH_

He sent the text and then tried lying face-down on the sofa for a bit instead.

Boring. He rolled onto his back in irritation.

The last time he'd been at Harry and Clara's, John had put his hand on Clara's distended abdomen to feel the baby kick. John's expression had gone all...soft.

Clara was rather pretty. By all objective measures, she was of a notable level of physical attractiveness.

John would not _do _anything to hurt him, Sherlock was sure about that. But that didn't mean John wouldn't have _feelings_ and _desires_ that he would be forced to deny and not act on. If Clara reciprocated those feelings–

Clara was not interested in men sexually. Clara was happily married to Harry – Sherlock had identified enough indicators of marital satisfaction to present a reasonable level of confidence in that regard.

The text notification tone sounded. Sherlock twisted around so that his head was now hanging off the edge of the sofa. He grabbed his phone and read the text upside down.

_Just picking up some groceries, back to perform husbandly duties bout 30 mins. x_

Sherlock flopped back up onto the sofa, somewhat mollified.

All the same, John was spending too much time at Harry and Clara's.

* * *

It was a Saturday night and for once no one had murdered anyone or stolen anything or done something mysterious enough to give Sherlock an excuse to get out of a dinner invite to Harry and Clara's. John gave him a stern 'best behaviour' look and knocked on the door to the girls' townhouse.

Clara opened the door, looking radiant, as usual. Now that the morning sickness had eased off, pregnancy seemed to agree with her. Both pregnancies so far were uncomplicated and John was impressed by how diligent both women were being about their prenatal health – exercising, following a strict pregnancy-friendly diet and taking prenatal vitamin supplements. As a result, as they entered their third trimesters, they were both positively glowing. With Clara's height, enlarged breasts, swollen belly, and the positive side effects of pregnancy hormones on her hair and complexion, she looked powerfully and impressively beautiful. Tonight she was wearing a long flowing black dress with a plunging neckline.

"God, Clara, you look amazing," John exclaimed, giving her a quick peck on the cheek and pulling back to admire her expanding waistline. "Like a mother goddess or something."

Clara laughed. "Um, I've seen those sculptures, John, but I'll take it as a compliment." She turned to greet Sherlock.

"Clara," he said, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek.

"Sherlock," Clara said with equal but mock seriousness. Her eyes twinkled as she pulled back, her hand still on his forearm. "Thank you for coming," she said seriously. "We don't see enough of you."

"John more than makes up for it, I'm sure," he said, but before John could give him The Look he continued. "It is good to see you again, and John's right, you look radiant."

Clara smiled. "And thank you for lending John to us so much. I'm sure you miss him, he's a treasure. Come inside. Harry will be down in a minute."

Watching Harry and Clara over dinner, so happy and in love, John felt a sudden stab of pride for his little sister. Harry was pregnant and glowing (even more mother-goddess-looking with her short frame), beaming at her wife, laughing and happy without alcohol to get her there. She'd done it, yeah with support from Clara and John and her friends, but ultimately by herself: made the hard decision and let go of the addiction and a past that was dragging her down. And now she was happy and she deserved it.

They talked about the babies, birth plans, and post-birth plans. Clara's mother was coming to stay for a week or so after each birth to help out, but the women wanted John and Sherlock to feel they were welcome to be there to bond with the new babies as well.

"We have a short list," Harry was saying as she returned to her seat, pecking a kiss on the top of Clara's head on her way past. "Hamish or Christopher for Clara's bump – Hamish after Grandpa and also Johnny's middle name, Christopher after Mum's dad."

"And we were thinking Audrey or Adele for Harry's baby," said Clara with a smile at her wife. "Audrey is my mother's name and Adele my grandmother's. We thought it would be nice if we took a name from each other's side of the family."

"Oh, they're all nice. I like Hamish, actually, and both the girl names are pretty," offered John.

"Hamish," said Sherlock firmly. "And Audrey."

"Opinion noted," said Harry, voice serious but her expression amused.

"What are you going to do about last names?" John asked. He knew Clara and Harry hadn't bothered double-barrelling their surnames when they'd married.

Clara glanced at Harry. "Maybe you shouldn't ask," she said raising her eyebrows at her wife.

"Oh?" John asked.

Harry sighed. "Clara wants to take my last name and just name us all Watson."

"Davies-Watson is such a mouthful, or Watson-Davies," Clara pulled a face.

"But if we're going to do that, then why not Davies?"

"There're two Watsons involved in this. There's only one Davies among us, so why not Holmes in that case?" countered Clara.

"No, Watson," pronounced Sherlock. "I want the babies to have John's last name."

"Watson-Davies is fine by me," said John. "Clara's doing half the work here."

"And therefore I get a major say: Watson," said Clara firmly. "I like the idea of being a Watson. Sherlock, you know what I mean."

Sherlock's gaze fixed on John. "Yes," he said shortly.

John exchanged glances with Harry. "I'm not getting involved in this one," he said.

Harry shook her head fondly. "Don't worry, I'm sure we'll have it worked out before the births."

"You're just planning on getting to the birth forms before I do," Clara said, teasing.

Harry pretended to be mortally wounded. They looked at each other with amusement and John was struck again by their closeness. He glanced over at Sherlock and found him watching him, frowning slightly. John raised his brows in query but Sherlock looked away.

"More salad anyone?" Harry asked and the conversation moved on from babies to other things: Harry and Clara's jobs – maternity leave wasn't coming up quick enough for either of them, John and Sherlock's work, their honeymoon sailing trip, movies, books, music. Sherlock didn't contribute much and every now and then John found him watching him with that same frown. Whatever was bugging him, it would have to wait until later. John supposed it was a blessing that he was keeping those thoughts to himself and not subjecting his hosts to Sherlock-level snark.

After dinner John found himself sitting next to Clara on the sofa while Sherlock was press-ganged into helping Harry organise coffee and herbal teas for everyone.

"Oh," Clara said suddenly. "What you doin', little man?" she addressed her bump. "He's really moving tonight. Must know his papa is here. Here," she grabbed John's hand and placed it over her belly. "Oh, he's stopped. Wait." John held his hand on Clara's stomach – oddly hard, like a ball full of air. Mary had only been thirteen weeks pregnant when she'd died, hardly showing; her little bump had been just firm, still belly-soft. A wave of sorrow-tinged memory washed over him, and for a moment he wished he was somewhere else and that it was Mary beside him and their baby beneath his fingers.

He felt a sudden sharp little bump under his hand, not a kick but a press, as if the baby were trying to touch him, then the little bump faded away as if the baby had slipped back into the depths of the amniotic fluid.

For the first time John felt as if the baby was a real, separate identity. He looked up at Clara in wonder and found her looking back at him, an arrested expression on her face. She was beautiful, a perfect image of motherhood and it should have been Mary and this was the _mother of his child, _his gaze flickered to her lips and without thinking John leaned forward and –

"Oh my God! John Hamish Watson! What the hell?!" Harry's voice was like a slap.

John sat back with a start, Clara was looking at him in horror, her hand on his chest to push him away. Sherlock and Harry were standing in the door way gaping at him.

"Oh God!" John ran his hand through his hair. "Oh shit, Clara, I'm sorry-"

There was a sudden loud and shocking crash and two coffee cups and their contents slid down the wall. Sherlock, face pale and tight, turned on his heel and walked out.

"Sherlock-" John scrambled up after him. "God – Clara, Harry, I'm so sorry. I didn't – I didn't – I have to go-" He ran down the hall in time to see the front door slam. John wrenched it open but Sherlock had gone. John ran down the street and then back the other way, but there was no sign of even a coat disappearing around the corner. John pulled his mobile out of his pocket and dialled. His call was rejected. With shaking hands he fumbled out a text as quickly as possible.

_Come back please. I'm sorry. _

He hit send and then as typed another quickly.

_I didn't mean it. I wasn't thinking. _

God. He was a shit. An utter shit. What had he done? He sank down onto the step of Harry's house and buried his head in his hands. Fuck. Fuck. He was a shit. He just had to do the one thing Sherlock was afraid of, the _one thing_. After all that effort convincing him John didn't want a woman, that Sherlock didn't need to be jealous, he had to fucking try and kiss Clara.

He couldn't even explain to Sherlock that he'd been thinking about Mary and it has somehow become all mixed up, because that would be almost worse – it would prove beyond a doubt that Sherlock had been right all along to be jealous of Mary. Sherlock would never trust him again. And God, Clara and Harry- oh fuck. They wouldn't forgive him either. And it would all be ruined and he'd liked coming over and helping and they wouldn't want him near them- oh shit.

He groaned and buried his face in his knees for a bit then straightened and scrubbed his hands through his hair. First things first. He had to find Sherlock.

tbc


	8. Chapter 8

**Warnings for this chapter: **rough sex, angst and inner monologues. Contains a sexual scene suitable only for mature audiences - let me know if you think it's a bit much for ffnet please.

**AN:** Huge thanks once again to my lovely, talented and very generous beta, TsylvestrisA. If you haven't checked out her stuff here on then do it now! Now I say! It's brilliant.

**Part 8**

Harry and Clara's front door was still ajar and John tapped cautiously before hesitantly entering the town house. A mark stained the wall where Sherlock had thrown the two coffees, the broken mugs lying underneath in a dark pool.

Clara and Harry were both sitting on the couch. Clara was holding Harry, who had her face buried in Clara's shoulder. His stomach sank.

"Oh God, Harry, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, Clara – I really – I was thinking about Mary, and I'm sorry. I don't - God, I'm a shit."

Clara glanced at him but didn't speak. She looked more upset than angry, which made John feel worse.

Harry looked up and sniffed. Her face was red and, unlike Clara, she _was_ angry. "Yes. A complete shit." She took a breath, attempting to keep her temper. "I can't talk to you right now. And poor Sherlock. Oh my God –" She shook her head. "Just go-"

John rubbed at his eyes. "Right. Yeah. I'm sorry. I have to try and find Sherlock – look, if he – if you hear from him, please, tell him I didn't mean it and I'm sorry, please?"

"Okay, John. You'd better go," Clara said.

John nodded and grabbed his coat and left.

He tried calling Sherlock again but his phone was off now. He didn't know whether to walk back and take the Tube in the hope that he might find Sherlock along the way, or catch a cab in case he'd gone home. In the end he took a cab. The flat was empty, so he ran out again and tried Angelo's and New Scotland Yard and Bart's. No Sherlock. Heart hammering, John took a cab back to Baker Street, still trying Sherlock's phone every few minutes. It was gone midnight and the flat was dark.

"Sherlock?" John switched the lights on and checked every room but the flat was empty. And then he saw it.

Sherlock's wedding ring, lying on the floor.

John sank to his knees, feeling punched in the gut. And wasn't that exactly what he deserved? He fought for breath, heart hammering as he curled into himself and fell to the floor.

Time passed and John lay on the floor, staring at the gold band lying abandoned on the carpet. He didn't know how long he'd been there when his phone rang. He grabbed at it desperately.

"Sherlock?" he gasped.

"No," said the voice on the other end. Mycroft. His heart sank. "Can you tell me, Doctor Watson, why my brother is currently at Heathrow Airport attempting to catch a flight to Los Angeles?"

Oh God, oh God. He choked back bile. "He's at Heathrow?" So this was it. It had finally happened. He'd driven Sherlock away. Sherlock had left him again. He thought he'd gotten over Sherlock leaving him, but he realised that really, he'd been expecting this all along.

"Do I let him get on that flight, Doctor Watson, or is there a good reason for me to stop him?"

His chest was tight, blood pounding in his ears. Mycroft could stop this, Mycroft could – "Please, stop him, please, Mycroft, you've got to stop him– " His eyes stung. He dashed at his face with the back of his hand. "Don't let him leave– Oh shit. I fucked up. Okay? Don't – I need to talk to him. I need to apologise– "

"My brother has disappeared once already, John, I don't intend to let him do it again. Whether or not I allow you to know where he is, however– "

"For fuck's sake, Mycroft, he's my _husband_– _"_

"Perhaps you should have thought about that before– "

"Mycroft, I'm begging you, please, I love him, please don't let him leave– " John buried his face in his free hand. Oh God, not again, not again.

"John," said a deep, wonderfully familiar voice.

He froze. He looked around, heart in his throat. "Sherlock?" He hadn't heard him come in, but he was there, standing in the doorway to the kitchen – thank God–

"Ah," murmured Mycroft and disconnected the call.

The phone fell from his fingers. "God, Sherlock– " he said, scrambling to his feet. "I thought – Mycroft said –"

"I heard." Sherlock's voice was flat. Tension radiated from him. "He wished to make a point; I left Heathrow over an hour ago."

John wiped at his face and took a step forward. He hesitated, stomach twisting. "You– considered it."

Sherlock shut his eyes and his expression made John hurt. It was the one he'd seen every morning in the mirror for months after Sherlock had jumped off the roof of Bart's. "Yes."

John swallowed. "Thank you for – not." His voice cracked and he swallowed again. "Sherlock– "

Sherlock exhaled and opened his eyes, his expression cold, jaw clenched. "Do you want to sleep with her?"

John had been expecting a towering rage but not this cold, compressed fury. Sherlock had been hurt beyond what he was capable of expressing, and John had been the one who'd done it.

"No, God no." His mouth was dry, too dry, he swallowed again to form the words that would make Sherlock believe him.

"Kiss her?" Sherlock's voice cut into him.

"No. Sherlock –"

"QUIET!" Sherlock's voice was a whip crack. "Don't. Speak." And in two steps he'd closed the distance between them and crushed his mouth against John's. The kiss was fierce and angry and it proclaimed ownership in some very primal way. John clung to him desperately, taking this lifeline, kissing back, holding on. His knees buckled and they both crumpled to the floor.

Sherlock pulled John's jumper up and off and tore open his shirt, buttons scattering. He pushed John flat on his back and kissed him fiercely again as he followed him down. They ground together, tugging at buckles and flies, biting kisses, shucking trousers and pants, shirts open and half off, until they were exposed, skin to skin.

"I'm sorry," John whispered against Sherlock's jaw, his throat, his ear. "I'm so sorry," he breathed as Sherlock nipped his shoulder and sucked a bruise on his neck. John felt him tremble against him, fingers pressing too hard, thrusts rough and wanting against his skin. John wound a leg around his thigh, pulling him closer. Sherlock gripped his arse and moved, cock against cock in response. John's breath caught and he thrust back in return. And then Sherlock shifted, pushed his legs apart and breached him, fingers slick with nothing more than spit, opening him, urgent and sharp. Then it was hard, hot flesh in place of two fingers, pushing into him, stretching him open too fast to be comfortable. John bent and arched under the sensation – the discomfort and burning tempered by pleasure, want, and a desperate need to be had, to give and share with Sherlock. He breathed and whispered and caressed, his pleasure a slow burn as Sherlock moved inside him, long, slow, shaking thrusts, his face pressed hard against John's hair.

"You're mine," Sherlock said against his ear, and gave a sudden thrust, hard and sharp. It took John's breath and he rocked into each thrust as Sherlock increased the tempo, harder now, fiercer. John twisted his face to meet Sherlock's lips, finding teeth and hot breath.

"Mine," growled Sherlock again and rose up, pushing John's legs back and bracing himself over him, eyes dark and angry, hips snapping as he thrust hard. "Mine, John," he panted. John swore and shoved his hand into his mouth, fire running up his spine and through his body with each sharp, deliberate thrust.

Sherlock's lip twisted and he drew nearly completely out. "I'm going to fuck you so hard, you won't be able to even _think _about fucking someone else without feeling my cock in your arse." The punctuating thrust, hard, bordering on vicious made John swear and arch and he shut his eyes and reached for his own cock, stroking desperately as Sherlock let go and pounded into him, fucking him until his vision blurred and he was seeing sparks and coming hard. Then Sherlock was shuddering out his own climax, gasping his name.

John couldn't move for a long moment. Sherlock lay heavily on top of him and he couldn't summon the energy in his boneless state to even think about changing that. After some indefinite period of time, Sherlock shifted off and rolled onto his back. John winced as abused muscles protested and then mustered himself to turn his head. Sherlock stared up at the ceiling.

John felt his pulse quicken. His throat felt thick and he tried to think of words to say that would make this right. Instead he reached over and put his hand over Sherlock's.

Sherlock pulled away and got to his feet. He did up his trousers and then retrieved his wedding ring from the floor, pocketing it.

"Sherlock– " began John, lifting up onto his elbows.

"It's fine, John," said Sherlock, voice terse, not looking at him.

John bit his lip. "Not really."

Sherlock's eyes flickered to his, cold and angry. "I'm the one who was betrayed; if I say it's fine, it's fine!" And he turned on his heel and walked to the bedroom, shutting the door behind him.

John sank back down onto the floor. He felt hollow and sick. He couldn't think, didn't know what to do to make this right. Okay, Sherlock wanted space. He could do that. At least he was here in the flat. At least he'd taken his ring. This would be all right. They'd work through it.

He got to his feet and did up his trousers to go to the bathroom. After he showered, he pulled on his boxers and vest. He paused at the bedroom door, hesitated, then went back to the sofa, feeling it was a fitting punishment.

He lay there feeling miserable and guilty until troubled sleep claimed him. He woke about four and sick dread made it impossible to go back to sleep. He got up, dressed, made tea. He considered going to Sherlock, climbing in beside him, soothing him, holding him. Uncertainty, fear of rejection, the knowledge of what was at risk held him back. He sat on the sofa and drank his tea alone.

* * *

Sex hadn't helped. Sherlock still felt an unbearable anger, still ached. He wanted John yet he didn't want him. Wanted John to make things right but didn't want John even to come near him.

He didn't want to hear John's explanations and apologies when _nothing _could fix this, nothing could erase the image of John leaning forward to kiss Clara. Not when he could still see it, even as he fucked John into the carpet.

He threw off his shirt, marked with John's semen.

Oh, it was sure to be very reasonable, all rational and perfectly understandable. It was nothing. Not even a kiss. But Sherlock had seen John's face, the softness and wonder. It had been a beautiful tableau: father and expectant mother. It had made his blood boil, it had made him made him feel physically ill.

Jealousy, his brain supplied unhelpfully.

He had known that was what John had wanted, despite his lies and denials. He'd thought he could circumvent it, thought Clara would be a safe option – a lesbian, married to John's sister, immune to John's charms; John, loyalty- and honour-bound not to fall for hers. Give John a baby and he would be happy, satisfied – Sherlock would have given him everything, there would be no need for John to look elsewhere.

His chest hurt. Also his stomach. Possibly an ulcer or heart attack. Both probably. Also, he couldn't stop shaking. His hand…if he held it in front of him…it shook.

He curled on the bed, arms wrapped around his middle.

John wanted to kiss her.

Sherlock's mind helpfully supplied the image of John doing just that, John kissing her, John fucking her –

No. Sherlock threw himself onto his back, staring at the ceiling. No. John was his. He couldn't be without John. John was his, he needed him, he couldn't leave him, couldn't, had tried. Had stood in Departures in Heathrow _and tried_. Memories of three long, lonely years, alone, without John, had made him shake and he couldn't, couldn't. As much as he hated, _hated_ John right now – and right now he hated him beyond reason – he couldn't leave. Didn't want to hear him, didn't want to touch him, couldn't bear his face, that face, saw him leaning into Clara _saw him-_

Sherlock took a deep breath. Panic attack. What to do? Head between legs. Deep breaths. Calm. Calm.

God, for something to calm him down. He wanted his violin but it was on the other side of the door. Near John.

No fucking cigarettes. No fucking 7% anything of anything. NOTHING. Given up, all given up for John. It was all for John.

All of it. All for John. All of this. Every single, _every_ thing. Three years of loneliness, coming back, allowing this emotion to take over his mind, his body, and now this pain, this terrible pain. All for John. He was John's. He was John's to hurt and crush and ignore and trample and–

No. It didn't matter because he didn't care what John did and John could go fuck himself and whatever woman he wanted to because Sherlock didn't care, it didn't matter, it didn't.

Deep breaths. Calm. Calm down.

John was on the sofa…John's shoulder ached when he slept on the sofa.

Sherlock twisted in bed, alone. The ceiling was bare and dark and where was John? Was he asleep? What was he thinking? Sherlock's skin prickled as he felt the spatial distance between them. Would he come in? Would he come to apologise? To hold him and tell him it would be all right and he didn't want Clara, only Sherlock– Or was he asleep, guilt-free, untroubled?

Fine. Sherlock didn't want him here anyway. Didn't want to hear his whispered apologies, his whimpered pleas for forgiveness. Didn't want to hear his _explanations_ and _excuses._ It would be something forgivable. Mary probably. _Something_ reasonable and understandable and he'd have to forgive him and he didn't want to, couldn't, why should he?

John and Clara. On the sofa, John's hand on _her_ stomach, John's expression, soft, wondering, looking at Clara as if she was wonderful, amazing, brilliant, leaning towards her, John's lips parting–

Sherlock twisted out of bed and fell onto the floor. He tore the duvet and sheets and pillows from the bed. Threw them across the room. Tangled them in a pile and crawled into them. He would not sleep in this bed. This bed that was theirs but now was full of lies and deceit. All the times John had promised to love only him, swore he didn't want anyone else, didn't want a woman, didn't need to compete with Mary. Lies.

He should have boarded that plane. Should have left. Should have left John here bereft and empty and useless like he was now. Made John hurt like this.

John _had _hurt like this, his mind prompted him, for three years. John had forgiven him-

John had begged Mycroft for him. Had begged him.

John had held him, kissing him, telling him he was sorry, so sorry.

God, he ached. His chest hurt. Was this normal? Maybe something was actually wrong.

Inside John, deep, pouring his anger and grief into his body. And John taking it and whispering soothing words and telling him how sorry, how sorry–

Of course John wouldn't be able to love him forever. He was a freak, some sort of aberration who was unlovable because he couldn't behave like a normal human being, couldn't be what John wanted, what he really, really needed. He couldn't be nice and sympathetic like Clara or Mary, couldn't soothe John. Couldn't have his children. Wasn't a woman.

John and him, leaning against the wall, panting, adrenalin coursing through their veins, John beaming at him in sheer delight-

John had taken everything, all their promises, all their secrets, all their fights and games and conversations and trampled them. John had probably laughed with Clara about how stupid and ridiculous and foolish he was.

He knew he shouldn't have allowed himself to give into his emotions. Sentiment. Of course it would end like this.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around his knees and hugged himself tight.

John was awake now, he could hear him, rustling about. Tea. What time was it? After four. Too early. Couldn't sleep. Why? Guilty conscience? Would he come in? Would he chase Sherlock, beg his forgiveness, crawl on his knees, ask to be absolved? Comfort him?

Sherlock slipped his right hand into his pocket and found the ring. He traced it between thumb and forefinger before pulling it out, slipping it onto his ring finger. He looked at the ring for a long moment, then slipped it off and tucked it back into his pocket. He lay his head on his knees and held himself tight again. John would come for him. John would ask, no, demand his love again. John would earn it.

* * *

John took a deep breath and told himself to man up and stop being a coward.

He opened the door to the bedroom and stepped inside. The room was dark and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. Sherlock was not in bed; in fact the bed was completely empty, stripped bare of its covers. Sherlock was on the floor, sitting against the far wall on a nest of blankets and sheets. He wore only his trousers. His knees were drawn up to his chin and he was staring at nothing. He looked heart-breakingly vulnerable. John felt a lump rise into his throat.

"Hey," he said softly.

"Go away, John," said Sherlock.

John stopped, his hand still on the door knob. "All right. If that's what you want."

Sherlock didn't answer.

"Do you want me to leave the flat or…just this room?"

There was no response.

"Right." John fiddled with the door knob, uncertain, nervous. He took a breath. "Sherlock, please– I can't bear the thought of losing you over some stupid mistake."

"Oh, so you just tripped and nearly fell on her lips, then, did you?" Sherlock's voice was a slap.

"It wasn't about Clara!" John winced at the irritation in his own voice. He had no right to be angry. No right. "Sorry. I– look, it wasn't about Clara. I– I don't – I don't even want to kiss Clara. I was remembering Mary, and I know that's probably just as bad. It got messed up in my head and I – I forgot where I was. I… I don't think I would have done it, to be honest. I _hope_ I would have stopped. But it's too late, it…happened…" Sherlock was so still, so quiet. He hadn't moved, hadn't responded. John's heart hurt. "I'm so sorry."

He closed the distance between them and sat down next to Sherlock, wincing slightly on contact with the floor. Felt as much as saw the tension in the other man's body, waves of prickly heat. John put his head in his hands for a moment. "Tell me what to do. What can I do to fix this?"

Sherlock didn't answer.

John banged his head back against the wall. "It's okay if you hate me for a bit. I'm not going to stop loving you."

"I hate you very much at the moment," mumbled Sherlock.

"Right. Yeah." John's heart was thudding. Talking. Talking was good. John's tongue darted out to wet his lips. "You can yell at me, if you want. I won't storm off, even," he offered.

"Why? So you can feel better?" John flinched at the palpable acid in his voice.

More silence. _Don't hate me,_ John wanted to say. _You are too important to me to lose. I was so stupid and I'm so sorry. Don't leave me over this. _His mouth was dry. He couldn't.

"You were going to leave," John said quietly instead.

"You were going to kiss Clara," Sherlock responded.

"I didn't."

"No. So I didn't either."

John exhaled. "Okay. Fair enough. Point taken." They had some sort of emotional cold war then, both armed with emotional weapons of mutually assured destruction – the worst things they could possibly do to each other. And neither of them could trust the other not to use them.

John reached out a hand and touched Sherlock's shoulder, froze as Sherlock flinched away.

"Don't– you do not get to touch me right now," Sherlock snapped. Then he abruptly stood and walked across the room, not even going around the bed, but stepping onto it and walking straight across it, directly to the door. He slammed it behind him. John heard violin music start, fast and angry.

He sat for a bit, head back against the wall, a sick, heavy stone in his gut, listening to the tormented sounds issuing from the living room. He didn't know if he should follow Sherlock out there but he suspected he'd be unwanted. So instead he sat against the wall, listening. After a while he got up and remade the bed for want of something better to do, and then lay on it, listening, waiting, arm over his face. He'd ruined it, everything.

Slowly the music changed. It grew calmer, quieter, sad instead of enraged. And then after a time, it stilled. Dawn light was beginning to enter the room when the bedroom door opened and Sherlock slipped in and crawled onto the bed beside John, curling around him. Hope kindling in his chest, John rolled over towards him, heard himself breathe in shakily as he met Sherlock's gaze. John tentatively reached up a hand to stroke his hair. Sherlock didn't pull away.

"I can't stand the thought of losing you," John said, his throat thick.

Sherlock's gaze didn't waver, but the corner of his mouth did quirk slightly, grudgingly. "I know."

"What I did– " John bit the inside of his mouth. "I knew how you felt, and I still – it was thoughtless and I hurt you. I'm an idiot, a complete prick. I'm sorry."

"You forgave me for worse," Sherlock said quietly. John's heart leapt with hope.

"I won't see Harry and Clara anymore, I'll only go over there with you– " he said quickly.

Sherlock touched his knuckles to John's cheek. John shifted closer, Sherlock nudged forward. Their noses brushed and slowly, hesitantly John pressed his lips to Sherlock's. They kissed, small, forgiving, reconnecting kisses, searching each other's faces, touching and holding. After a little while Sherlock drew away and buried his forehead in John's chest with a shuddering sigh, arms and legs entwined with his. John drew him close and pressed kisses to his dark curls. John found his left hand and the ring in its place on his finger.

"You forgive me then?" John asked, playing with the band.

"I suppose I must." Sherlock looked up at him. "I'm still angry."

"You've got every right to be."

"Don't be so reasonable, it's annoying. I can't be properly furious with you."

"Sorry."

"It's fine," Sherlock sighed. "I wanted a cuddle anyway."

John did just that, and wrapping his arms tight around Sherlock, he buried his face in his hair. He breathed and let himself enjoy it. It wasn't okay yet, but it might be. He hoped it would be.

**tbc.**


	9. Chapter 9

**AN:**

**Warnings for this chapter:** contains consensual sex, very, very, very light D/s themes, restraint. Currently uncensored. Please let me know if you feel this chapter is too strong for FFnet. Thanks.

Once again thanks to my amazingly talented beta TsylvestrisA who has managed to find time to do a wonderful beta job of this chapter. Thanks to her, not only is it better all round, but I now know how to cook rissotto and John only got his cock out once.

**Part 9 - In which John has to correct a few misunderstandings - with sex.**

Sherlock threw himself into the work. The work was good. It was clean and sharp and had neat lines of reason and logic. Point A led to Point B and through until Point Z and the answer was found and tested and proven correct. It didn't _hurt_ when Point A led to Point C instead of B – or if Point E was the answer after all. There was no emotion. All that mattered was the puzzle and the answer. Oh, and when he found the answer, the surge of victory, the pure _pleasure_ of solving it was unequalled.

John was also a puzzle. A puzzle Sherlock solved with fingertips and lips, tongue and teeth and cock. When Sherlock studied John, everything was clean and clear; the pathway lead from John to John and the answer was always that same burst of sheer exhilaration, acknowledgement of his own genius. John coalesced the noise that hammered at Sherlock in his everyday existence, narrowed it to a single point, wrapped in an ugly jumper with sandy hair and a wayward grin.

_This._ _This_ was not clean and neat and sharp reason and logic. This was confusing and muddy and there was no answer and there was no single correct solution, only varying degrees of pain and unhappiness. There was no clarity, no solidifying rightness in his deductions. There were doubts. It bothered Sherlock to experience these murky, unclear emotions – no more righteous anger or raw jealousy, but instead vague guilt, uncomfortable questions, niggling dissatisfaction.

He didn't want to feel anything except the rightness of having John – with him, near him, loving him.

Sherlock focused on the work and felt the clarity of thought run through him like quicksilver.

* * *

Sherlock was gone when John woke up a few hours later. He started to panic before he found the post-it note stuck to his forehead and a message on his phone.

'Case' was all they said, but it was enough to reassure John so as not to go into a full-blown panic.

He pottered around the flat, cleaning and doing a spot of paperwork before he finally bit the bullet and called Harry. It was painful: Harry didn't pull any punches and John listened to every word as penance for his sins. He'd made Clara feel uncomfortable. Harry couldn't trust him; she'd known he'd always fancied Clara and it was low to make a move on her when she was pregnant. John apologised and tried to explain how he'd been overwhelmed by feeling the baby move and remembering Mary and how it had all become mixed up with Clara being the mother of his child and he knew all that, and he hadn't meant to do it–

Harry asked about Sherlock and John lost his words. There was a long pause, then he managed: "He's…it's fine."

Harry must have noticed something in his tone because she went quiet. "You know how that must have seemed to him, John," Harry said.

"Yeah. Yeah I do. He's– we're working on it. He's still living here, so that's…that's good."

Harry was quiet again. "Okay Johnny, um, maybe, just give us some space for a few days."

"Actually– " John sighed. "I don't think I should come over anymore, even if you'll let me. Sherlock...anyway, I'm sure Clara doesn't want to see me. I'd better not."

"Oh."

"Sorry. Look if you need anything, Sherlock– "

"Yes, I'll call Sherlock. But– " Harry paused again. "Okay, Johnny. I'll talk to you soon, okay?"

John ended the call and sat for a long moment feeling empty. It was for the best. He'd meet the children when they were born, spend time with them then, but he shouldn't be hovering over Harry and Clara like some sort of mother hen. That's what had led to this in the first place. He needed to spend more time with Sherlock, fix things here.

He flexed his hand, remembering the feel of the baby pressing against it, not just kicking, but reaching out to make contact. Well. Both babies would be here soon enough. Harry was seven months pregnant, Clara, six. In the intervening months John had become quietly excited about the prospect of being a father. Spending time with Harry and Clara, seeing the ultrasounds, listening to the babies' heartbeats, seeing the two mothers-to-be bodies grow and change as the pregnancies progressed, not to mention the preparations John had been involved in, had all helped build the sense of anticipation. He wondered if he'd still be allowed to attend the births.

John cursed himself for an idiot and went out to do some grocery shopping.

Later that evening, Sherlock came home for five minutes, rummaged around for a book, then pecked John on the lips and was gone again. The 'don't wait up' was implied. There was no invitation for John's company.

* * *

Things were not okay.

They had entered a curious détente at Baker Street and it was frustrating Sherlock enormously.

His anger, always storm-like, had burst and then dissipated almost immediately. Now he just wanted everything to be back to normal, so he could safely push uncomfortable feelings and remaining doubts into the dark recesses of his mind. Instead, John was being tediously careful of his feelings. At first Sherlock had enjoyed it – John being exceptionally nice to him, catering to his every whim, not nagging him for tedious oversights – but two weeks in and it was beginning to grate. He knew he was being more churlish than usual but still John insisted on stepping on eggshells around him. Sherlock kept pushing, hoping John would snap, would stand up for himself, would fly into a wonderful temper, but he didn't.

John was true to his word and didn't visit with Harry and Clara anymore. At first Sherlock put this down to Harry and Clara's reaction to John's faux pas, but after overhearing a phone conversation between John and Harry, he realised it was for his benefit. John had declined an invitation to something, for reasons relating to 'I shouldn't', 'we're getting there,' and that it was 'for the best'. Sherlock had been pleased but then John had been quiet afterwards, so much so that Sherlock had exploded a beaker full of acid in the kitchen just to take his mind off things. Now there was an uncomfortable sensation in his midsection whenever he thought of John not visiting Harry and Clara.

Harriet had contacted Sherlock shortly after the Incident. She'd asked how he was _feeling_ and talked about _feelings_ and said he was still welcome to visit and that even though John was a cockhead, he was still her brother and she knew he hadn't meant to hurt anyone and Clara had asked her to tell Sherlock that she hadn't meant anything either and about how the babies caused more _feelings_. Sherlock hadn't wanted to talk to Harry anymore so he'd pretended to have been attacked by junkies and ended the call. John had called soon after in a state and Sherlock had to assure him that no actual junkies had been involved in the phone conversation.

The churlishness and snapping might also have had something do with the fact that no sex had been had by the inhabitants of 221B Baker Street since the night of the Incident. Sherlock hadn't noticed the lack at first – there'd been back-to-back cases for nearly a week after the Incident – but then, when all that was wrapped up, John hadn't made any advances. Sherlock found himself unusually hesitant to make an overture. Normally he'd have had no qualms about demanding sexual attention if he was feeling unsatisfied, which rarely occurred because there was usually sex on tap the minute they'd wrapped up a case. Not this time. Oh, John was happy to kiss his hair fondly when he draped himself over him on the sofa, and snuggle in a close embrace in bed at night; he'd even follow Sherlock into a kiss, but there'd been nothing but fond, careful affection. In the wake of the Incident, Sherlock felt it was John's place to demonstrate that he still wanted to have sex with him. A small part of him, the part that was still poking at the raw wound in his psyche, the bit that looked suspiciously at John's Internet use, his mobile messages, and his contact with anyone of the female persuasion, _that_ part wondered if John was thinking of Clara.

An equally uncomfortable thought also occurred to Sherlock, one which more than anything made him tentative about pushing John. He'd been particularly demanding the last time they'd had intercourse, had taken his pleasure with no regard whatsoever of John's feelings. He may have been somewhat rough. Despite the high emotion at the time, Sherlock distinctly recalled John wincing painfully when he had sat down next to him afterwards. Had…had he broken John? Had he made John wary of sex? Wary of sex with _him_?

Either way, it made him determined that John should come to him first, in his own time, when he was ready.

John still felt arousal. Sherlock saw the physical symptoms manifest, but then it was as if John deliberately shut them down: he'd look away and when he glanced back they'd be gone. At least twice Sherlock had returned to the flat and had found evidence that John had recently masturbated. So obviously John still needed sexual relief; just not with him. Sherlock was not going to resort to masturbation and that wasn't counting the extra long showers. The body was transport, after all, it had only been two weeks since his last release but prior to forming an attachment with John he'd gone months at a time. He would wait for John.

* * *

John was doing his best, he really was, but Sherlock was still annoyed with him. He was trying to be sensitive, to give him time, but he felt like he was constantly walking on eggshells. Sherlock snapped and became impatient over the littlest things, even more so than usual. There were moments when he seemed to relent and would sigh and drape himself against John's back for a cuddle or lay his head on John's lap and let him stroke his hair. Sherlock hadn't forgiven him enough to have sex again since that night. John didn't push, but he did find it frustrating, having to bite his tongue, keep his hands to himself. Time, they just needed time.

At least Harry and Clara seemed to have forgiven him. He talked to Harry every other day on the phone and had talked once with Clara to clear the air, but he couldn't go over there. It wouldn't help matters with Sherlock.

Everything came to a head two weeks to the day after John had fucked everything up. There was no case and Sherlock had promised to be home for dinner, so John had put out a bit of effort to make something nice. He'd cleared the table and set it properly for once. Sherlock had surprisingly arrived home as promised. He slipped his arms around John's waist as he was stirring a pot on the stove and pressed a kiss just behind his ear.

John felt a spark of hope.

"Hello," he said, pressing back against Sherlock a bit.

"Mm, that smells passable. What is it?"

"Risotto. How was Bart's?"

"Annoying. I miss Molly. Don't tell her I said that." Sherlock nosed at his hair and planted another kiss. His tone was light and for once he seemed to be in a good mood.

"Show your appreciation? Perish the thought," John said, daring to tease.

Sherlock huffed against his ear and slid his hands down onto John's hips for a moment before withdrawing them and stepping away.

"Bring the plates over, would you?" John asked. "It's ready." He turned and found Sherlock still standing right behind him. John looked up at him, eyebrows raised questioningly.

Sherlock stepped forward and pulled John into a kiss. Oh. That was nice. It wasn't that they hadn't kissed lately, it's just that they didn't seem to make the step from kissing to anything else. The kiss would start and then just…fizzle out, with Sherlock not doing anything more than _kissing. _John lifted his hands to Sherlock's biceps and returned the kiss, wondering, if, this time, Sherlock would decide he deserved something more than a frustration-inducing snog. But no, Sherlock's hands didn't move from their place on John's waist, his body stayed taut, and after a moment John dropped his hands and pulled back before he got too worked up.

"Right. Well, plates," he said, stepping around Sherlock to fetch the plates from the table.

"Don't bother, I'm not hungry," Sherlock snapped and strode off towards the living room.

John stared after him, repressed irritation and frustration finally overwhelming his control. "Oh, what's the bloody matter now?" he demanded, slamming his hand on the table.

Sherlock spun around. "I don't know, John, maybe the fact that my husband doesn't want to have sex with me anymore?"

John gaped at him. "You – I – you're bloody joking me, aren't you?"

"Joking? John, we haven't had sex in fourteen days. Is it– " Sherlock took a breath and seemed to gather himself. "Did I hurt you, last time? Is that why?"

"Did you…" John stared at Sherlock, understanding finally dawning. "You mean you've been waiting for me to make a move because you thought– Sherlock, I thought you still hadn't forgiven me yet! I was being considerate!"

Sherlock stared back at him. "You're not repulsed by the concept of physical intimacy with me?"

"Nope."

"You're not pining after Clara Davies?"

"Definitely nope."

"Oh."

"The reason I haven't done anything is that every time I kiss you, you just…stand there. I thought you weren't ready yet." John ran his hand through his hair. "Do you know how many wanks I've had to have so I wouldn't throw myself at you?"

"Four," said Sherlock, then acknowledged, "maybe five. I was only seventy-five percent sure about Thursday."

John took a breath. "And you have obviously been waiting for me."

"Yes. I was also trying to be considerate," Sherlock said with a pout. "Or let you prove you still desired me. Either way, you were supposed to make the first move."

John licked his lips, his mouth suddenly dry. He turned around, put a lid on the saucepan and a cover over the skillet and switched off the stove before turning back.

In two strides he'd crossed the floor to Sherlock and pulled him down into a hard and deliberate kiss, all tongue and teeth and warm breath. He pushed him back to bump against the back of the armchair, following after, pushing his knee in between Sherlock's thighs.

"First move, then," he murmured against Sherlock's ear and canted his hips forward. Sherlock's mouth fell to John's throat and they rocked against each other, arousal building. It had been too long, much too long and all because they were both idiots. This needed to be more than a quick hand job by the sofa. John pulled back, steadying himself.

"Not like this," he said firmly. "Bed. Now."

Something flashed in Sherlock's eyes and the corner of his mouth twitched. John stared him down, pulling on the mantle of authority he'd previously used in the middle of a war zone to order around burly soldiers twice his size. Sherlock inhaled sharply and grabbed John's hand, pulling him into the bedroom.

He stood obediently still while John pulled off his suit jacket and unbuttoned his shirt. John pushed the soft fabric off his pale, perfect shoulders and set to work on his belt and trousers while Sherlock toed off his shoes and socks. He made a grab for John's shirt but had his hands batted away for his trouble.

"Nope. This is about you," said John, and finished making Sherlock naked. He took a moment to enjoy the sight of his husband's nude form – he always put John in mind of a marble sculpture: alabaster skin, perfectly formed limbs, imperious expression. "For some unfathomable reason, you don't believe I want you. So," John turned and stripped the duvet, and then pushed Sherlock backwards onto the bed, "obviously I need to show you. Hands to yourself and no talking."

Sherlock opened his mouth, caught sight of John's raised eyebrows, and closed it again. His expression was heated as he shifted up the bed and gripped the headboard with both hands. He was already aroused, his penis standing thick and proud.

"Very well," he said, flexing his hips slightly, erection twitching.

John kicked off his own shoes and fetched the bottle of 2-in-1 lube and massage oil from the top drawer of his bedside table. He crawled onto the bed beside Sherlock and paused for a moment, taking in the sight of long, lean limbs, tousled dark hair, a perfect bottom lip caught between teeth and eyes, dark with want.

"Do you have any idea how fucking beautiful you are?" John asked. He pressed his mouth to Sherlock's and kissed him, slow and thorough. After a long moment he drew back and, holding Sherlock's gaze, ran his knuckles over his cheek and jaw, traced fingertips over his brow and smoothed back his hair. Sherlock's eyes fluttered shut and John placed reverent kisses on his cheekbones, brow, and nose. He took one of Sherlock's hands from its place on the headboard and turned it, running his fingers over it lightly, studying it before placing a kiss on the palm, the wrist. He looked up and found Sherlock's eyes on his, expression warring among arousal, submission, and demand. A kiss on Sherlock's forearm, another on the soft skin inside his elbow. He returned Sherlock's hand to its place on the headboard and traced fingertips over flexed bicep and shoulder, across the collarbone and then pectoral muscles, following their path with his tongue and lips. Sherlock didn't make any sound save the occasional sharp intake of breath or shuddered exhalation.

John dribbled a liberal amount of oil onto his hand and ran it over Sherlock's chest, down over ribs, flat stomach, the dip of his navel and then up again. He couldn't get enough of this body, every inch of Sherlock. He was hard, but he breathed out and pushed that to the background for now. Sherlock first, to show him how much John wanted to touch him, admire him, be with him.

He stilled and glanced up at Sherlock who was watching him with dark eyes. "I love you," he said simply. "You are the most amazing, brilliant person I've ever met. You're mad and a genius and my best friend. Every day you take my breath away." John ran his oiled palm over Sherlock's right shoulder and bicep and then back down, admiring the curve of muscle, the smooth skin. He repeated the movement on the left side. "How I feel about you is beyond anything I have ever felt for anyone," he said, growing heady with the freedom of venting his feelings. "You are my bloody soul mate and I don't care that you're a man; it doesn't matter, and I feel stupid for ever wasting time and letting it matter, because I should have kissed you the first day I met you."

He glanced up then and saw Sherlock watching him, hooded eyes dark, lips parted. John smiled ruefully.

"But I wouldn't have, because why would someone as fucking magnificent as _you_ want _me?"_ He stroked down, sliding over Sherlock's oiled chest, pausing on the left, over his heart, then down, along ribs, to caress his abdominal muscles. "I can't believe my luck that you do. I was grateful to just be your friend, but you went and married me."

"Idiot," said Sherlock fondly.

John grinned and shook his head. He bent down and licked once at Sherlock's cock, feeling his own twitch in response. He straightened and ran his fingertips lightly down Sherlock's sides, watching the way he shivered, the way his breath caught. Sherlock's cock twitched again, hard now against his stomach, pre-come at the tip.

"Why would I want a woman – _anybody_ else, when I have you?" he asked. He felt the words forming in his mouth and he couldn't stop them. "I didn't want Clara. I don't want Clara." He slid his hands over Sherlock's hips and thighs, stroking. He couldn't look at Sherlock's face to see what reaction his words were causing. He had a feeling this might be a bit not good, but he couldn't stop, not now, now that he'd started. "When Mary was pregnant – I was already starting to love it, before – and I started to let myself feel that again, for these two babies. And that night, when I put my hand on Clara's belly, he reached out, Sherlock, he tried to touch me – it was incredible. And Clara was part of that, just like Mary had been, and for a moment I forgot that it wasn't my partner beside me, just the woman who's carrying my baby."

"If you're quite finished –" Sherlock started to roll away, but John straddled his thighs and caught his wrists. He sought Sherlock's gaze, and returned it, unflinching.

"Don't. I need you to understand."

Sherlock fell back onto the pillow with a sigh and shut his eyes tightly.

"Don't you see? You gave me this," pleaded John. "It was you. I wouldn't have done this without you. You gave me that. It should have been you I kissed." He released Sherlock's wrists. Sherlock opened his eyes slightly but didn't respond. He returned his hands to the headboard. John drew his knuckles across Sherlock's belly. "I can't change what happened. But you have to believe that it had nothing to do with sex or desire or wanting anyone else. Nothing."

After a long moment, Sherlock sighed and reached out to squeeze John's hand.

John lifted himself off Sherlock's thighs. He poured out some more oil and ran his hands over long, well developed thigh muscles, moved to the end of the bed to massage Sherlock's feet as he considered the rest of the thoughts crowding up for confession.

"Oh God," Sherlock groaned as John rubbed his thumbs over the sole of his right foot.

John drew in a deep breath. Right. There was no going back now. "You know, Mary was an anomaly," he said quietly, setting down Sherlock's right foot and reaching for the other. "Our relationship happened in the space you left. There wouldn't have been room for her if you had been here." He rubbed the ball of Sherlock's foot and then scraped his fingers under the arch, making Sherlock hiss – ticklish there. "I'm not going to apologise for loving Mary. Her memory is sacred to me. But you've got to understand that how I felt about her has nothing to do with how I feel about you."

There was a huff of irritation. He risked a glance at Sherlock's face. His eyes were still closed and there was a frown on his brow. His erection had flagged, and to be honest, John's had too. Right, mood killed. John finished up with the left foot and returned to the top of the bed. He pressed a quick kiss to Sherlock's lips and then moved downwards to flick one of Sherlock's nipples with the tip of his tongue. Goosebumps prickled along Sherlock's skin and John blew on the dusky point of flesh before running his tongue across it again. Sherlock shifted slightly, murmured his approval. John repeated the action on the other side, feeling his arousal kindle once more, and then ran his hand down Sherlock's chest, tracing each rib, circling his abdominal muscles. He followed with his mouth, kissing a trail from sternum to navel. By then, Sherlock's erection had firmed again and he pushed his hips up impatiently.

John traced his fingers down to the sensitive skin at the juncture of hip and groin. He bent his mouth to the soft skin, cupping Sherlock's arse with both hands as he licked up to and around his heavy prick, taking care not to touch. Sherlock canted his hips towards him, seeking contact. It provoked something perverse in John.

"Roll over," he said firmly. "Hands and knees. No rubbing off on the sheets."

Sherlock groaned but obeyed. He bowed his head and watched John with a mixture of lust and resentment. It made John's own erection even harder and he unzipped his fly to relieve the pressure. Not yet. Not yet.

He knelt beside Sherlock, running his hands over muscles and taut flesh, the curve of his spine, the twin globes of his buttocks, the backs of his thighs, brushing against the heavy fall of Sherlock's bollocks.

"You are so beautiful. So fucking amazing," John breathed. He didn't even try to self-censor now, all his thoughts coming stream-of-consciousness. He kissed Sherlock's thigh, pressed his lips to his arse, to his hip.

"Yeah, I like looking at naked women. I do, I like looking at porn. Probably the same way you like looking at crime scenes, I imagine." He leaned forward, nipped Sherlock's shoulder before brushing his lips against Sherlock's ear. "But do you know what I think about when I do?" Sherlock made an odd noise in his throat. "I think about you sitting next to me, not turned on at all by all those bouncing tits and wet pussies, sitting there with your hand on my cock, telling me in that sexy voice of yours to get off while you stroke me and watch me look at porn."

"John– " Sherlock bit off the word.

John shifted behind Sherlock, ran his hands up his thighs and pressed his clothed hips and erection against Sherlock's perfect arse. Sherlock bucked back against him and John groaned and pulled away before he lost control. He placed more kisses down Sherlock's spine, licking at dip of his lower back before parting Sherlock's buttocks and delving lower. Sherlock whimpered and rocked his hips desperately as John teased the sensitive skin.

"Roll over again," John instructed when he pulled back.

Sherlock moaned in protest but obeyed, crashing onto his back, his knees still bent, cock hard, offering himself to John.

John took a deep breath and adjusted his trousers around his aching hard-on. Now that he'd started, he couldn't stop the confessions. "I tried looking at gay porn. Tried imagining it was you and me getting off, and it worked a bit, but all I could think was that it was some other bloke. And I don't want some other bloke, and I don't fucking want you sucking off some other bloke either."

"John, please," begged Sherlock, his hands straying precariously close to his cock.

John squeezed out some more oil onto his hand and tugged lightly at Sherlock's balls before pressing a slick finger to his hole. He pushed slowly inside, running his other hand soothingly along Sherlock's trembling thigh.

"Oh God, John, please– "

He found the prostate and crooked his finger, stroking and making Sherlock arch under his attentions. Sherlock gripped at the sheets and choked out a curse. He withdrew his finger and then pushed in again with a second, pressed his thumb against Sherlock's perineum as he moved his fingers until Sherlock was quivering and begging. Sherlock's cock looked painfully hard, but John resisted the urge to take it in his mouth. He was uncomfortably hard himself. He took a breath and tried to bring himself under control. With shaking hands he freed his cock from its confines and lifted Sherlock's hips up to settle his arse onto his lap. Biting his lip, he tilted his hips forward and nested his cock and balls against Sherlock's. He stopped, trembling slightly; it was almost too much – the image of cock against cock and the physical sensation of Sherlock's thick length and heavy bollocks under his own hyper-sensitive flesh.

"See how hard you make me?" he breathed, meeting Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock's lips were parted and a flush coloured his cheeks.

"God yes," he said. His eyes were wide, the pupils dilated, but they flickered to John's and locked on his gaze. John leaned over him, bracing himself with his hands while he tilted his hips and let their cocks slide against each other.

Sherlock made a strangled sound.

John quivered and slid again, the sensation against his cock sending pleasure winding up through him. He could come from this, but he wanted everything tonight. He sat back, all feeling narrowed to the glowing pressure in his groin and cock and thighs. He looked at Sherlock's face, open and wanting, naked desire writ large. John felt a surge of pride; he had done this, had taken Sherlock apart, exposed this raw need.

"What would you like?" he asked softly. "My cock or my mouth?"

Sherlock whimpered. "Both. No," he said, his throat bobbed as he swallowed. "Mouth. Mouth and fingers and then when I've come, I want you to fuck me."

John bowed his head for a moment, trying to gain some control, then slid his fingers back inside Sherlock. He wrapped his hand around Sherlock's cock and bent his mouth to it, tasting for a moment before sliding his lips over the thick head. He moved up and down Sherlock's shaft, laying him out: an open, shaking, incoherent mess, pressing back onto John's fingers, up into his mouth. He increased the tempo, and then Sherlock was gasping his name and his hips were bucking up, and John swallowed hard as he came.

He pulled off and with fumbling hands slicked his cock. He surged forward, pushing back Sherlock's thighs and positioning himself, gritting his teeth as he tried not to enter him too hard, too fast. It only took three quick, desperate thrusts, two kisses, sloppy and mistimed, and John was shuddering and whimpering, vowing his fidelity and devotion in nonsense words as his climax washed over him.

He collapsed panting onto Sherlock, heart hammering. Strong arms wrapped around him and shaky lips brushed his temple. Sherlock's breath was unsteady and John could hear his heart pounding beneath his ear.

"My John, my John." Sherlock's baritone rumbled through him.

John rubbed his cheek against Sherlock's chest. "God, I love you," he said.

Sherlock was silent but he squeezed John a little tighter. They stayed like that for a while, but eventually John's breath evened out and he rolled off. He felt good, happier than he had in weeks. This was good. He felt as if a huge weight had been lifted from his chest. John's stomach growled. Oh yeah. Dinner.

"Right," he said, taking Sherlock's hand and squeezing it. "Shower, then I'll see if I can resurrect any of that risotto."

Sherlock made a sound that might have been a reply but also might have been his reaction to the concept of moving just at that moment. John gave him a quick kiss on the lips and left the bed.

He was in the middle of reheating the risotto when Sherlock came out of the bathroom fully dressed.

"Going out," he said shortly, reaching for his coat.

John looked up in surprise, putting down the spoon. "Oh. Right. Where?" he asked, a sinking sensation forming in the pit of his stomach.

"Out," said Sherlock and left before John could say anything else.

John scooped out a serving of risotto and sat down heavily at the table. "Right," he said, and picked up his fork to poke at his meal. Right.

**tbc**


	10. Chapter 10

**AN:** Thanks as always to my amazingly talented beta TsylvestrisA whose editing skills always leave me impressed. Of course I fiddled afterwards and all mistakes are my own. Thanks also to everyone who has commented and shared their thoughts, you help me make this better as well, and especially to Quiet Time for turning on a light bulb for me in this chapter.

**Disclaimer:**Although I've done my best to research the scenarios presented in this story in order to provide an accurate and realistic situation, all medical information and depictions of pregnancy and related issues in this story are not intended as advice, medical or otherwise and should not be taken as such. All parenting and pregnancy related opinions expressed by the characters are not necessarily those of the author and their views or actions may contradict current advice on parenting best practice.

**Part 10**

Harry had just set down two mugs of hot chocolate and parked herself on the sofa next to Clara when there was a sharp, imperious knock at the door. Harry groaned; standing up was not getting any easier.

"Stay there, I'll go," said Clara.

"No, don't," said Harry. For the last couple of days Clara had been having some spotting and Harry was doing her best to make sure she got as much rest as possible. She was hoping the midwife would recommend that Clara stop work early and rest when they saw her tomorrow.

"Harry, stop it. I'm getting the damn door," said Clara, trying to look stern.

Harry sighed in defeat but gave her wife a grateful look as she hauled herself to her feet. God, they were like two whales. It was a bit funny sometimes, especially if they tried to do anything like share a bath. Spooning in bed wasn't exactly as close and personal as it used to be. Thanks to pregnancy hormones and extra blood flow to their nether regions, as well as something indefinable about Clara and pregnancy that made Harry fancy her more than ever, both their libidos were back up to where they'd been when they'd first met, but sex had become logistically difficult. Harry put her feet up on the footstool, wondering whether a quick bonk on the sofa later might be on the cards.

"Sherlock!" Clara exclaimed.

"I need you to show me." Harry heard a familiar deep baritone. It always amused her: the fact that Johnny, always so bloody defensively heterosexual, was now married to a bloke whose voice was deeper than his. She'd suspected since she was a teenager that her brother had been protesting too much but she'd so far managed heroically to refrain from an 'I _knew_ it' or 'I told you so', because Johnny, out of everyone , had never been anything but supportive of her sexuality.

"Oh. Um. Excuse me?" Harry could hear the confusion in poor Clara's voice. Harry wasn't completely used to the human whirlwind that was her brother's husband either.

Sherlock sighed. "John claims that feeling the baby move in your uterus was an amazing event. I need to experience it for myself."

Oh…Harry had to smile. Hopefully this meant they were sorting things out. She missed having John popping over for a visit, and to be honest, she and Clara were both getting to the stage where extra assistance would actually be useful, especially now that it was obvious Clara was over-doing things. Harry had been furious with John – angry at him for hitting on her wife, mortified that her brother had put Clara in such an uncomfortable position. But after he'd explained about Mary, Harry couldn't stay angry anymore, especially when Clara was her usual forgiving self.

"Um, Harry?" Clara called. "You want to take this one?"

"Sherlock?" Harry called back. "Come in here, you great prat, because there is no way I'm getting off this sofa."

"Harry," said Sherlock striding into the living room. "I need to feel your abdomen."

"This better not be for the purposes of research or study," said Harry darkly.

"Of course it is; I need to research why John already loves the babies. What's so special about feeling foetal movement?"

Harry smirked. "God, you're precious." She patted the sofa beside her. "Come on then, Baby Girl's been kicking a bit."

He sat. She took his hand and placed it over her baby bump. He frowned and moved his fingers – lightly prodding.

"Oi! Careful. Hand flat. Wait," Harry corrected. "You can rub _gently_, if you like."

Sherlock moved his hand in a clockwise motion.

Time to take advantage of her captive audience, she decided. "Sherlock…you and John, are you two okay?"

Sherlock looked at Harry with what she could only describe as a withering expression. "None of your business, Harriet."

"It kind of is, actually," said Harry, rising to the challenge. "I was there when Johnny thought you'd died, and then when Mary passed away too–" She bit her lip, wondering how far to push it. "What happened two weeks ago–"

"John has already explained, _at length_, his side of the story. I'm not in the mood for a second Watson-sibling lecture tonight."

He started to stand but Harry grabbed his arm before he could move. "This isn't about Johnny's fuck-up. Look – when you came back – I've never seen him happier. I didn't say anything then, but put it this way: I know he made a mistake, but don't hurt him again or I'll do something even your scary brother won't be able to fix."

His expression was cold. "I don't intend to. Don't try to be threatening, Harry, it isn't very effective."

She smiled sweetly. "I'm pregnant and my Mumma Bear instincts have gone into overdrive. Don't test me."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Harry, do not for one minute think that _anyone_ loves John Watson more than I do."

She glared. She knew very well that there was selfless love; and then there was selfish love, when you needed someone painfully; and there were all the shades in between. "Yeah, well, he doesn't love anyone as much as he loves you. So just remember that, okay?" She raised her eyebrows pointedly.

He opened his mouth to respond just as the baby kicked, and instead looked up at her with a start. "I felt it." He looked back down at her bump and kept his hand perfectly still.

Harry grinned and then Baby Girl kicked again. "Oop, did you feel that one?"

Sherlock nodded, a peculiar look of concentration on his face. He bent his head suddenly and pressed his ear to Harry's belly. "Hello," he murmured. Harry laughed when she felt the baby boot Sherlock square in the face. He pulled back, clearly surprised.

"Bit loud, maybe?" she suggested.

"It can hear," said Sherlock wonderingly.

"You haven't read any of those baby books, have you?"

He frowned and returned his hands to Harry's stomach, beginning to hum something like a lullaby but more complex. Harry felt the baby turn, a large lump pushing her stomach outwards at one point, like a baby whale breaching the water. Sherlock placed his hand on that part of her belly and the baby withdrew again.

She put her hand over his. "Do you see?" she asked gently because he suddenly looked a bit fragile.

"Yes. Perhaps."

Clara was standing in the doorway watching them. Harry looked up and caught her eye and she smiled, that warm, loving smile that always made Harry's heart beat a bit faster. Clara crossed to the sofa and sat down on the other side of Sherlock. "Here," she said. "Say hello to your son as well."

Sherlock glanced at her and carefully placed his hand on her belly. Harry watched as the difficult, odd man waited, quiet, breath held. And then he and Clara looked at each other and Sherlock's eyes dropped back to Clara's stomach.

He frowned and drew his hand away.

"That's enough." He paused. "Thank you." He chewed on his bottom lip for a moment. "I still don't love them. Is there something else?"

Harry and Clara exchanged glances.

"Well, John's been visiting for a few months now, has been really involved. He's had more time to grow attached," said Clara.

In a fluid movement, Sherlock was on his feet, pacing like a giant cat in a cage. "Do you love them?" he demanded.

Harry nodded and saw Clara's smile go a bit gooey as she did as well. And they did – they loved these little creatures that gave them heartburn and stretch marks and woke them up five times a night to pee.

Sherlock paused mid-stride and spun on his heel to face Clara. "What does John do, normally, when he visits?"

"Oh, odd jobs; helping paint the nursery, picking stuff up from the shops, rubbing our feet. He's a sweetie," said Clara.

"Should I do that?" He plopped onto the sofa between them again.

Clara rested her hand on his arm. "Only if you feel like it. You're more than welcome to visit us whenever you want. It doesn't have to be to run errands and do chores."

"You don't have to love them yet, Sherlock," said Harry. "It's all right if you don't."

"No, but I need to understand. This is important to John."

"If it's so important, then maybe you should let him visit us again," said Harry.

Sherlock was on his feet in a swirl of coat. "John can do what he wants," he said stiffly.

"He seems to think he has to stay away for the good of your relationship," said Clara.

Sherlock frowned again and concentrated on adjusting his sleeves, but a faint blush coloured his cheeks. "That isn't an issue anymore," he said shortly.

Clara lumbered up and gave Harry a meaningful look. "Well, anyway, you're both welcome here any time. Especially once the babies arrive. Okay?" she said, obviously taking pity on him.

Harry hauled herself to her feet. "Yeah, you are, you big idiot," she said, giving Sherlock a one-sided hug.

"I have to go," he said when she had released him. "I'll see myself out."

Harry looked at Clara as they heard the door shut behind him.

"Well," said Clara.

"Yep," said Harry. And they exchanged glances and giggled.

* * *

John had gone to bed rather than sit around the flat wondering where the fuck Sherlock had gone and when he was coming back. Oddly, he wasn't worried about _whether or not_ he was coming back, because somehow he knew Sherlock _would_. He'd left twice but both times had come back and he wouldn't leave now, not because of this. He tossed and turned for a while, feeling alternately annoyed and a bit queasy whenever he thought about things _still _not being right, and that he'd somehow read everything wrong before when they'd had what he thought had been pretty great sex.

He must have finally fallen asleep because he was woken by a lanky body burrowing under the covers and wrapping around him.

"Sherlock?" He blinked, trying to orientate himself as the owner of said lanky body pressed fast, urgent kisses to his face and throat. His heart felt suddenly light and he chuckled. "What's all this,

then?"

Sherlock pushed up John's shirt impatiently, following immediately after with his own bare body, pressed close against him, arms wrapped around him as if he was trying to burrow into John's very skin. John rolled towards him and held him fast in return. "I'm never leaving you," Sherlock said, voice low and fierce. "Don't ever think that."

"It's okay, I know," said John, his chest suddenly tight. "I'm not, either."

Sherlock let out a long sigh and pressed his face hard against John's for a moment before seeking his lips for several kisses.

"I met our children, John," Sherlock said, worming in closer.

"You were at Harry's?" John asked.

Sherlock twined his legs around John's. "Our daughter kicked me in the face. Admittedly I did say something completely inane. I was impressed."

John laughed and pressed his forehead against Sherlock's. Sherlock had gone to Harry and Clara's. John had told him he needed him to understand, and Sherlock was trying to do that. John looked at him, suddenly overwhelmed. Sherlock kissed his lips again.

"Did you know they can hear already, John? I am going to send Harry and Clara a playlist of essential classical music. Who knows what sort of half-baked musical education our progeny have received so far."

John searched Sherlock's face. "It's amazing, isn't it? Feeling them move in there."

"It's…intriguing," said Sherlock, brow creasing in thought, tone the same he used when studying mould spores. "Objectively they are still merely proto-human, hardly sentient, yet feeling their response to stimuli, talking about them, has helped personify them – to give them motives when obviously there can be none yet."

John chuckled and stroked his back. "You're saying people need a motive to want to kick you in the face?"

Sherlock gave him a narrow-eyed look. "I met our son, too. He was much nicer to me. At least _one_ person in our family is," said Sherlock.

John kissed him in apology. _Family._ "Should I be worried about him, having your daughter as a big sister?"

Sherlock smirked. "Probably."

John was about to say he hoped she had Harry's personality but remembered all the scrapes his sister had got in and decided that would be just as difficult. "Well, they'll have four parents to mind them and the scariest man in the government as their uncle, so I think they'll be all right."

"And Mrs Hudson as their adopted grandmother, so all will be fine."

John found Sherlock's lips and decided they needed to be kissed properly. Sherlock drew back after a moment, searching John's face in the gloom.

"Are you sorry we did it, John?" he asked. "You didn't want to; you said it was a bad idea. Do you think you were right?"

Oh. John propped himself on an elbow and considered his response. "It _was_ a bad idea. Or maybe we just handled it badly. I don't know. I'm sorry that I didn't include you more, and that we didn't talk about some things sooner. But the babies – I'm not sorry."

Sherlock splayed his hand on John's stomach and focused his gaze there, frowning. "I wondered if I'd made a mistake. It seemed to have the opposite effect to what I'd intended."

_Sherlock_ admitting he might have been _wrong._ This was serious. John let out a deep breath. "I always knew your reasons were pants, I mean honestly – I have _you, _idiot, you didn't need to give me a baby to keep me – but it…it's not a mistake."

Sherlock's eyes flickered up to meet his again. "Good. I'm glad. I think I'm looking forward to the babies arriving."

John couldn't help the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Oh. That's good. I'm glad…too." He reached over and traced the sharp line of Sherlock's cheekbone.

"I thought I'd lost you," Sherlock said quietly as he ran his fingertips over the dip of John's waist.

John swallowed around the lump in his throat. "Me too." His drew his hand back, fingers curling.

Sherlock breathed in, then out, then in again, his hand still, not meeting John's eyes.

"What did I ever do to deserve you?" he murmured, voice rough and wondering. John felt a surge of love for this brilliant, amazing man, suddenly aware of how much of Sherlock's heart he held. He bit his lip and cupped Sherlock's cheek again. Sherlock's eyes flickered up to meet his, suspiciously bright.

"Be you," said John simply.

Sherlock tugged him down with a look that said he thought _John_ was amazing and kissed him urgently. John returned the kiss as Sherlock wrapped his arms around him, holding him tight. The kiss lightened to a long, slow snog and then into lazy kisses at ever-increasing intervals.

Happy and contented, John's arousal was a low-level but pleasant hum after their earlier satiating activities. Sleep began to tug again at his consciousness. Sherlock, too, seemed contented to just cuddle.

"Are we fine, then?" he asked, turning his face into Sherlock's shoulder and pressing his lips there.

"Yes," said Sherlock. And quickly added: "Are we?"

"Yes," said John.

"Good." And Sherlock shifted up and tucked John under his chin, against his chest, and they both went to sleep exactly like that.

* * *

The next evening, John was sitting on the couch updating his blog when Sherlock sat down next to him, peremptorily took his laptop, clicked through the browser history, hit Enter, and dumped the laptop back in John's hands.

John looked at the website that was loading on the screen. He looked at Sherlock, eyebrows raised. Sherlock looked back at him steadily but his eyes glittered. John shifted the laptop onto the coffee table then settled down more comfortably on the sofa, spreading his legs slightly.

"Oh _dear,_ John, whatever is that you're watching on your computer?" murmured Sherlock in a low, mocking voice that curled through him like some dark smoke.

"Mm," said John, feeling his ears grow hot. "It's called pornography."

"Hmm. It looks tedious. I suppose you're going to masturbate to it?"

John bit the inside of his cheek, torn between smirking and going with the scenario. "Am thinking about that, yeah."

"Right here on the sofa, John? Where anyone, even your husband, might walk in? Sounds a bit…risky."

Oh, you bastard. A frisson hit John with _that _word. John watched surreptitiously as Sherlock slid closer on the sofa so that their thighs were touching, propped his elbow on the back of the sofa, and rested his head against his hand, studying him.

John licked his lips and shifted slightly, trying to pay attention to what the big-breasted women were getting up to on the screen. "It doesn't do anything for you, does it?" he commented.

Sherlock shifted a bit suspiciously next to him. "Me? No. Poor acting choices, predictable dialogue, excessive use of close-ups."

"You don't mind me watching it, though?" John asked lightly, determinedly not taking his eyes from the screen. He unbuckled his belt and flicked open the button on his fly. It felt like the good kind of illicit.

There was a notable pause before Sherlock answered. "You have execrable taste in television at the best of times; I can hardly discriminate against this particular example." John could feel Sherlock's breath, warm against his cheek, as the other man leaned closer. His lips ghosted against John's skin for a moment before he continued, voice low and velvety against his ear. "I'm not sure I approve of this though: you, touching yourself while you watch other people…_fucking_."

John's eyes fluttered closed for a moment and his face felt hot. "What do you suggest I do, then?" he asked, feigning innocence and suddenly forgiving every bad line in every porno he'd ever watched, ever.

Sherlock slowly unzipped John's fly. "I suppose I will have to do it for you."

"Suppose? Not very definite."

John lifted up and slid his jeans and pants down to his thighs. He sat back and risked a glance at Sherlock, whose gaze was fixed on John's rapidly hardening member and whose cheeks were colouring with a delicate flush. His eyes snapped up to John's and John quickly looked back at the screen.

He felt a light touch ghost over his cock and he shifted slightly, hyperaware of Sherlock beside him as he watched the pornography on the screen in front of him. There was the pop of a lid, the sound of something viscous and wet, and then Sherlock's large hand, slick and cool, closed around his erection and John sank back against the sofa with a groan.

"Definite enough?" Sherlock asked.

John swallowed. "Uh, yeah."

"Eyes on the screen, John," Sherlock purred against his ear.

It was even better than he'd fantasised. Dirty, terrible Internet porn and Sherlock's hand on his cock and lips at his ear, words curling through him, twisting up with the images, the knowledge that Sherlock was_ there _watching him. He felt guilty yet not; permission granted yet the shame of a dirty corner of his mind exposed. His eyes kept drifting towards Sherlock stroking his cock, the very sight making him groan. And Sherlock's voice, rough, ordering him to keep his eyes on the screen, not to _look,_ to pay attention to the porn. His fingers dug into the sofa and he bit his lip, letting Sherlock build his arousal, then slow it, drawing it out until finally he couldn't take anymore and he grabbed Sherlock's hand, holding it still as he fucked into it, pressing his forehead against Sherlock's.

"Come for me, John," murmured Sherlock, nose brushing John's, knee digging into his thigh, ragged breath against his jaw.

And John did, messily, hard, and swearing as he did. He fell back against the sofa and felt Sherlock collapse beside him. After a full minute he rolled his head to one side and looked at his husband. "That. Was. Amazing."

Sherlock was flushed and breathless, legs apart, his own erection tenting his trousers, but he managed a shark's grin as he wiped his hands on some tissues that had miraculously appeared. John twisted over and sank to his knees at Sherlock's feet, freeing his cock and taking him, thick and hard, into his mouth.

* * *

Sherlock hummed, his head thrown back, aroused and wanting. His fingers dug into John's shoulder and the sofa, and he let the arousal and the building climax take over, let it focus his mind into a singularity of thought consisting of one word: John.

He stayed very still for a long moment afterwards as his thoughts returned. He felt John fall back onto the sofa beside him, kiss his cheek, then flop against the cushions, panting. That had been illuminating. John had – John had been focused on him – despite the naked women performing sex acts upon each other. John had had to force himself to pay attention to the screen when his obvious preference had been Sherlock. Of course, it wasn't a conclusive experiment since Sherlock had been physically touching him whereas the women had been visual stimulation only – ah – simple – if he hadn't been trying to fulfil John's fantasy he would have thought of it sooner – John ostensibly to watch the screen, while Sherlock masturbated close by, but not touching – which would he watch –

Sherlock stopped, because he knew, suddenly, without need of experimental evidence, without empirical proof – John would choose him. He knew.

Faith.

Sherlock's eyes opened wide. He turned to stare at John.

"Oh. Oh!"

John looked towards him, brow furrowed adorably. "What?"

"I _trust_ you."

John's brow still crinkled. "Oh. Good, Sherlock. I –I'm glad. I trust you too."

"No – don't you see – I _believe_ in you. I have faith. I don't require proof. I just do."

Sherlock saw John's expression change, smooth out, clear as understanding dawned. "_Oh_," he said, his voice suddenly quiet. And he shifted forward, kneeling up on the sofa next to Sherlock, and cupped his face and kissed him, very gently. And when he'd done, he stayed there, one hand gripping the back of Sherlock's neck, their noses and foreheads touching, eyes searching Sherlock's.

Sherlock gripped his arm, holding him there in return.

John drew back to survey him with that expression that said Sherlock was brilliant and fantastic and other flattering adjectives. "Bit good, Sherlock, bit very good."

"Yes. It is, isn't it?"

And then John snickered. And Sherlock snickered.

"Tosser," said John.

"Idiot," said Sherlock.

And John's grin was glorious and he was laughing, that stupid, breathless _giggling_ laugh and Sherlock couldn't resist and he was laughing too and then they were kissing again and the world was right once more.

* * *

John held back from returning to Harry and Clara's. It was Sherlock's turn now, and it gave John a warm feeling to see his partner starting to finally get excited about the babies; loading classical music onto an ipod, reading up (finally) on pregnancy and birth – and best of all – lying in bed at night with John and making plans: a nursery in the laboratory (formerly John's old room), field trips to the zoo and museum, places and things he wanted to show the children.

It was the following Wednesday when Harry called. "Johnny," she said quaveringly, and a chill ran through his gut.

"What's wrong?" he said, putting down the mug of tea.

"We just got back from the obstetrician. Clara has placenta praevia."

John had trained as a GP and his experience with pregnancy-related health issues was limited to diagnosing pregnancy, what he'd gleaned from helping Harry and Clara, and that one time in Afghanistan when he'd had to deliver a baby for a local woman. Placenta…_praevia_ – meaning having occurred at first or in front of something. Which meant…

"Oh shit," said John.

tbc


	11. Chapter 11

Thanks as always to my gem among betas, TsylvestrisA. Any mistakes and idiosyncracies are my own, of course.

**Warnings for this chapter:** pregnancy tmi, irreligious banter, violence, homophobic comments/attitudes.

**Disclaimer:** Although I've done my best to research the scenarios presented in this story in order to provide an accurate and realistic situation, all medical information and depictions of pregnancy and related issues in this story are not intended as advice, medical or otherwise and should not be taken as such. All parenting and pregnancy related opinions expressed by the characters are not necessarily those of the author and their views or actions may contradict current advice on parenting or child-birth best practice.

**Part 11 - In which pregnancy stuff happens.**

John sat heavily, hands shaking. He couldn't remember what he'd said to Harry before he'd hung up the phone.

"What? What's wrong?" Sherlock demanded, already pale skin turned ashen.

"Clara has placenta praevia. They missed it in the first two ultrasounds but she's been spotting and they got it checked out. It means the placenta is located too close to the cervix–"

"Yes, yes, I do know Latin; what does it _mean_?" Sherlock set down the test tube he was holding and took off his safety glasses.

"It means there's a large risk of severe bleeding or death for both Clara and the baby, especially if she goes into spontaneous labour."

"Caesarean section then," said Sherlock, rising to his feet.

"Yeah, at thirty-eight weeks, and complete bed rest until then. It's two weeks after Harry's due– " John thought it through. This would muck everything up completely. Confined to bed, Clara wouldn't be able to do everything that needed to be done for Harry during her labour, and that supposed Harry even went into labour on her due date. If her baby was overdue, Harry could be going into labour at the same time as Clara had her C-section.

Sherlock paced, firing questions that John couldn't answer immediately. John cracked open his laptop, logging into BMJ and PubMed to do some research.

"You'll need to go back to Harry and Clara's," Sherlock said abruptly. "No arguments. They'll need your help and I won't be suited to the task – when have I ever successfully done the groceries for us, let alone a brace of pregnant women?"

John smirked at that, but nodded. "I – yeah. If they want me. Is – will that be okay?"

Sherlock waved his hand impatiently. "Don't be dense. You will have to be Harry's birth partner and possibly attend Clara's birth if Harry is unable to do. You're the most logical choice: a biological parent and familiar with the mothers' preferences and wishes. And you're a doctor. Simple."

John searched Sherlock's face, then nodded. "I'll make the offer. They probably have friends they'd prefer, but we should, you know, be available. Both of us."

Sherlock paused, his eyes on John's, then nodded as well. "Yes," he said. "Both of us."

* * *

Harry and Clara were looking tired and worried when John and Sherlock visited the next day. Harry hugged him and told him he was an idiot for staying away. Clara smiled at him from her place on the bed.

"How are you?" John asked her, forcing himself to meet her gaze. They'd had a brief conversation on the phone wherein he'd apologised again and Clara had told him she'd understood, but it was the first time he'd actually seen Clara since he'd tried to kiss her. He knew, however embarrassed he was, he had to face his sister's wife if they were to ever get past it.

"I feel – well, good, actually," said Clara, giving him a smile that was also a bit hesitant. "Typical – I finally start nesting and have energy to do things and I'm confined to bed."

John grinned. "Well, we're here to help, so, you know, just order us around." He looked down and inhaled a deep breath. "And I am sorry, about before. It was totally inappropriate and Harry told me, um, how I made you feel uncomfortable."

Clara bit her lip and frowned. "It did, but when you explained about Mary...I understood – it didn't make it any less awkward but it _was _a bit less offensive. I mean, guys do hit on me, it happens, but the only ones who do it when they know I'm gay or married are quite frankly douches, and definitely not friends."

"Ah. Right. Yeah." John's face heated and he nodded, feeling, yeah, like a total douche. "I'm so sorry, and I didn't mean to… I _know_ you aren't interested in men _and_ you're my sister's wife. So I wouldn't – I wasn't making a play for you, I really wasn't, I just – it won't happen again."

"John." Clara's smile was amused and kind. "Apology accepted, okay?"

His face flushed again and he smiled at her ruefully. "Thanks. I appreciate it."

"And for the record, you_ are_ an idiot for not coming over sooner." She paused. "Um…"

John followed the direction of her gaze and saw Sherlock on his knees beside Harry, cheek pressed to her belly, murmuring something.

Harry looked at them both, a bemused expression on her face. "It's nice that you're trying to give Baby Girl a head start in life, but perhaps the periodic table could wait until she's out of the womb?"

"Nonsense. I've been reading the literature; her brain maps are already forming."

"Sherlock," said John. "We talked about this."

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes melodramatically. "Fine," he said, standing up. "I brought my violin over, but apparently I have to ask permission before I play."

Harry and Clara glanced at each other, amused. "As long as you do it quietly."

"Fine, fine," said Sherlock and he dashed into the hall to fetch the instrument.

"This is different," noted Clara.

"Whatever happened when he visited you the other day, he's suddenly become 'involved'," explained John.

"Should we be afraid?"

"Probably."

He needn't have worried. Sherlock spent the rest of the visit playing Brahms, Handel, and Ravel in quiet, lullaby tones. John did some odd jobs and Harry and Clara put their feet up, dutifully letting the babies listen to the music. John made them both herbal teas and sat in the armchair in their room when he'd finished.

They talked about what was going to happen now that Clara was on strict bed rest. Clara had, of course, stopped working immediately. Harry had taken the week off but wasn't due to take maternity leave for another three weeks. Clara would need a constant companion at home from thirty-four weeks, unless she was admitted to hospital. Harry would have finished work by then but she was still worried about Clara being by herself and was considering trying to wrap everything up early.

"Simple," Sherlock said, pausing his playing to contribute. "John can come over while Harry's at work."

John blinked in surprise. If he hadn't believed Sherlock trusted him before, this convinced him.

"Uh…yeah…sure, that's if Clara would like me to…"

Harry and Clara exchanged a look, and given his recent conversation with Clara, John suddenly felt like an idiot for even agreeing to the suggestion – as kind and forgiving as Clara was, of course she'd feel uncomfortable being alone with him here. "Although you'd hardly want me hanging around all day," he added quickly, trying to spare them all embarrassment.

"No, no, thanks for the offer," said Clara politely. "To be honest, I'm happy to be here by myself. Beth said she could call in, and Mum's coming to stay for a few days. Harry will come home for lunch. If you wanted to come over every now and then, like you used to, that would be lovely."

John smiled gratefully. "I'd like that. And you can always call us if you ever need anything."

"I know," said Clara.

"We will," said Harry. "Besides, you both better be available for the births. Especially now that we've got a proper date for Clara."

Sherlock paused his playing again and looked up sharply. "Will we be allowed into the theatre?"

"Ah, no," said Harry. "One guest only, and that would be me."

As he and Sherlock left and walked towards the Tube, John felt happy, despite Clara's placenta praevia. It was a problem, yeah, but wasn't unmanageable, and for the first time he felt as if the four of them were truly a team in this thing. Even Sherlock, who he'd expected to complain about sharing him, had been thinking only of how best to help. John took Sherlock's free hand and stopped, pulling him to a halt. Sherlock looked at him with a raised eyebrow.

"Thanks," said John. "For being supportive."

"They're my children too, John."

"I know. But I'm glad you know that as well."

Sherlock made a non-committal sound. John reached up and kissed him.

"And thanks for trusting me," said John when he drew back.

"Already told you: I believe, John. I have never been a religious man, I always thought blind faith to be intellectually lax. I'm prepared, however, to make an exception for you."

Overcome a bit, really, John covered it by being a smartarse. "So…" he smirked. "I'm your…what? God?"

The corner of Sherlock's mouth quirked up. "More a…demigod, perhaps. A cherubim, really." They started walking again.

"Do I demand any particular religious observances?"

Sherlock smirked. "I have to get on my knees at least twice a week."

"I think _hands_ and knees sounds more like."

"If I've been a good little acolyte." Sherlock waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

"Or if you've been a bad one." John smirked.

"Oh, if I've been a bad one, I need to be punished."

John grinned. "Meanwhile you seem to keep forgetting my first commandment: don't forget the fucking milk."

Sherlock snorted. "Commandment? More like a guideline ,really."

"Don't leave toes in the kitchen sink?"

"Again, guideline."

"Maybe I should get them carved in stone or something; bit more impressive."

"I do tend to lose the ones you stick on the fridge."

"I see a flaw in your theory," said John.

"Oh?"

"How come I end up doing all the cooking and cleaning and laundry?"

"Ah. Answering my prayers?"

John raised his eyebrows. "I am the answer to your fucking prayers," he growled. He caught Sherlock looking at him sideways.

"Hm, yes, you are," said Sherlock. "You saved me. Don't forget it."

John held his gaze. "_You_ saved _me_," he said quietly. "I am grateful every day for having met you."

Sherlock exhaled a shaky breath, his eyes dark. "Forget the Tube, let's get a cab."

Later, in the relative quiet and dark of their bedroom, long after Sherlock had made love to him as if he were the one who was precious and wonderful instead of the other way round, and had left him boneless and breathless, John stirred awake. He got up for a trip to the loo, and then slipped back into bed and rearranged Sherlock's long limbs, cuddling back into him. He placed a kiss on his chest and settled back to sleep, happy and contented.

* * *

Mycroft's visit to Baker Street was unexpected and, of course, occurred while Sherlock was out. He waved away the offer of a seat.

"I understand your sister's wife is experiencing complications," he said.

"You've been looking at Clara's medical records," said John. It wasn't a question.

"No, no, heavens no. That would be a gross invasion of privacy. I'm merely taking a close interest in the well-being of my niece- and nephew-to-be."

John didn't even dignify that with a response. "Your point, Mycroft?"

"That perhaps Ms Davies would be more comfortable in the private system?"

"I think she's quite happy with the hospital she's chosen actually," said John. "I'm not sure she'd be able to get into a private hospital at this stage anyway." He had offered to pay for the cost for a private hospital at the start of it all, when the women had been discussing birthing options. At that point they'd decided to take the home birthing route, but now Clara had simply booked into the NHS hospital suggested by her midwife. If Mycroft was offering to pull some strings he could bloody well spell it out.

"A good friend of mine is an obstetrician at one of the more renowned maternity hospitals. I've been assured that Ms Davies – Ms Watson too, if she wishes – can be accommodated. The expense, of course, would not be an issue. Consider it my gift to the new arrivals."

John bit his lip. He was tempted to tell Mycroft to mind his own business and stop interfering, but this was about Harry, Clara, and the babies and what would be best for them. "Do you have his details?"

_"Her, _details, yes." Mycroft handed him a card. "Perhaps Ms Watson and Ms Davies would appreciate the opportunity to meet with Doctor Werner and discuss this option."

"I'll tell them," said John, studying the card. "Thank you," he offered, trying not to sound begrudging. "I suppose I should be grateful for your not kidnapping Clara to tell her about this."

Mycroft merely raised his eyebrows. "Please ask your sister and Ms Davies to consider my offer, Dr Watson." With a brief nod of his head, he showed himself out.

* * *

At thirty-seven weeks, Harry was _over_ being pregnant. Her belly felt heavy and she was tired and uncomfortable. She finished work on the last day before her leave, kissed everyone goodbye once more, and caught a cab home with a box of stuff from her desk and a bag full of presents.

John opened the door for her. He took the box as she headed straight for the loo to empty her pea-sized bladder. When she came out, he'd made a cup of raspberry leaf tea.

"Here you go. Happy maternity leave!"

"Cheers," Harry raised her cup. "Are you here for a bit or heading off now?" she asked.

John was pulling on his coat. "Have to go; Sherlock's at the Yard making people feel inadequate. I'd better fetch him home before he ends up in the lockup for the night. Groceries are in the cupboard."

Harry smiled. "I'll go up and see Clara now." She squeezed his hand. "Thanks for all your help."

"No problem. I'll come over again next week, but let me know if you need anything before."

Harry gave him a kiss on the cheek. "Will do. Keep that big git of yours out of trouble."

John grinned and waved as he shut the door, and Harry took her tea upstairs.

"Hello you," said Clara, switching off the telly as Harry climbed onto the bed next to her. "Excited?"

Harry laughed. "I don't know, it's a bit of an anti-climax really. I just want the baby to come now."

Clara put her hand on Harry's tummy. "Don't listen to your mummy; stay in there as long as you need, no pressure, but not _too_ long."

"Thirty-seven weeks is term," said Harry. "She can come any time."

"Before my C-sec, at any rate." They'd both gone with Dr Werner, the obstetrician Mycroft had suggested. There was a birthing pool at the hospital, and if Harry went into labour around the time of Clara's scheduled C-section, at least they'd be in the same hospital together.

Harry leaned her head against Clara's shoulder. "Bit scary, all this." The thought of all the possible risks and complications Clara was facing made her heart clenched. She offered up a quick, fervent prayer that both Clara and the baby would be safe.

"Bit, yeah." Clara turned her face, her nose brushed Harry's. Harry smiled and gave her a kiss. "Love you, Clara-bell."

"Love you, Harry Maclary."

Harry poked out her tongue and Clara grinned, cupping her cheek as she caught Harry's mouth in a kiss.

* * *

Sherlock was still at the Yard when John caught up to him. They'd been called in on a string of apparently related kidnappings. The latest victim still hadn't been released when John had checked in last.

"Anything?" John murmured to Greg as he slipped quietly into the office where Sherlock was studying the map on the wall, deep in the bowels of his Mind Palace by the look of him.

Greg shook his head and beckoned for John to follow him out of the office so they wouldn't disturb Sherlock's thought processes.

"We haven't had a call about the last one yet. They usually take thirteen hours from the estimated time the victim is taken before they make contact."

John looked at the man he loved, pacing the floor in the next room, hands held taut in front of him as he gestured and muttered to himself, occasionally stopping and staring before turning around and stabbing a finger at seemingly random points on the map.

"What's Sherlock say?"

"Apart from casting aspersions on our intelligence? He's certain they're linked, and he's given us a profile of the kidnappers, but he's still working on where, why and exactly who."

"Right. I'll see if I can grab something to eat, then. It'll probably be a long night. Call me if he suddenly races off, yeah?"

"What are you getting?"

"Grabbing something from the cafeteria. Get you anything?"

"Ham and cheese toastie, yeah?"

When John came back, Sherlock was busy pinning things to the map. He handed Greg his toasted sandwich

"How're Molly and George?" he asked.

Lestrade's face lit up with pride. "Great! Georgie's walking!"

"Already? How old is he?"

"Just turned nine months," said Greg proudly.

"That's early, isn't it?"

Greg grinned. "Think so. Mind you, he still doesn't sleep through the night and won't touch his solids. Molly's a wonder; she's so good with him even though he keeps her up half the night, little blighter." He shook his head fondly.

A chill washed over John at this vision of his future.

"Um, I'm just going to see how he's going–" he said, pointing at Sherlock. "Say hello to Molly for us, would you? Tell her Sherlock misses her at the morgue. She must be heading back to work soon, yeah?"

"Yeah – two more months, I think. Part-time. Her mum's going to mind Georgie for now, but we've been looking into nurseries for him."

John nodded and went back into the office, munching on his hot chips. That would be him and Sherlock soon, well, him, at any rate: talking about kids instead of the football final or what happened last Friday down at the pub. The thought was simultaneously frightening and exciting.

Sherlock was talking to himself as John handed him a coffee. He took a sip absently before handing it back. John sat on the edge of the desk and tried to follow Sherlock's train of thought. He was getting better at it, but he still usually needed the crib-notes-for-idiots delivered afterwards.

"Oh! Oh of course! John –" Sherlock spun on his heel. "The railway siding – obvious."

John made eye contact with Lestrade through the window and tilted his head towards Sherlock as he pulled on his coat.

"What? Figured it out?" Greg asked, popping his head into the office.

Sherlock pulled on his gloves. "We thought the first victim was taken outside the café, but they weren't. Check the CCTV footage for Russell Square station."

"Where are you going?"

"Railway siding. Do keep up," he said and swept out the door.

John raised his eyebrows at Greg and followed after him.

* * *

Harry's estimated delivery date came and went. At forty weeks, they'd started trying some natural methods: hot curries, even more raspberry leaf tea, long walks, and nipple stimulation (although unfortunately good old-fashioned sex was a bit unfair to Clara, who couldn't join in thanks to her precarious placenta, so Harry had to handle that on her own). Harry was getting Braxton Hicks contractions but nothing turned into actual labour. Her waters hadn't broken, she hadn't lost her mucus plug, and the baby stayed resolutely put.

"Hurry up, Baby Girl," Harry told her bump when they reached forty-one weeks. She was lying in bed next to Clara. "Otherwise you're going to be a little sister, not a big one."

"It would be nice if they shared a birthday," said Clara. "I mean, if they're going to be within a week of each other, they might as well be on the same day."

"And they can just say they're twins," said Harry, rubbing her feet against Clara's.

"It would be better if she came before her brother though, so I can be there. Or long enough after so I can get out of bed."

"Hear that, Baby Girl?" Harry told her bump. Baby Girl gave a kick and then proceeded to do horrible, pushing-up-and-scraping things to Harry's belly-button region, adding a few more stretch marks to the spider-webbing that had appeared in the last week. She'd been doing so well avoiding the stretch marks, applying oil every day, but in the last week, the baby had obviously decided she needed to start renovating and was going to knock through Harry's umbilical area.

"Really?" Harry shut her eyes. "I am so over being pregnant."

Clara rubbed her arm comfortingly. "Not long, sweetheart." Her own little passenger let his presence be known. She ran a hand over her bump. "He's going to be tiny compared to his sister," she said.

"Four whole weeks' difference. It's a good thing he's a big little boy."

"Will you still love my vagina after this little heffalump's been through it?" Harry asked, only half joking.

"Always." Clara leaned forward and kissed her lips. "You'll be extra beautiful because of what you've done." She screwed up her face, which Harry meant she was feeling a bit teary and trying not to show it. "I feel…I'm still a little bit disappointed, you know? I'm okay with having a C-section, this is the best birth for me and for our baby, but still, I wanted to experience a natural birth."

"Hey," said Harry, reaching for Clara. "I know, but this will still be amazing. You are doing the best, the very best, keeping our baby safe and healthy. You've been so patient and strong and brave. You know I'd have gone mental lying in bed all day. It makes me sick when I think about what could happen if we aren't careful..."

"I know, just - I wish."

Harry squeezed Clara's hand. "I'm terrified," she said quietly. "I'm worried about you and Baby Boy, and I'm scared about going into labour, and whether or not Baby Girl will be okay. I was all keen to do it after my classes but it's taken too long now–"

"You'll be magnificent," said Clara firmly.

Harry leaned her head on Clara's shoulder and closed her eyes. "You and me and two little babies – what the crap are we thinking?"

"We'll be fine. They'll be fine."

"You'll be lovely and wonderful. I'm going to be a horrible mother. I'm too selfish." Harry ran her hand over Clara's bump.

"No, you'll be wonderful and we'll do this together. It takes a village, remember, and we've got two hulking tribesmen hanging around to help, plus Mum, plus Sherlock's brother, plus the boys' adopted Mum. It will be fine."

Harry giggled at the image of her brother and his partner in loincloths, holding spears. "Our poor babies. We must protect them."

Clara laughed and kissed her. "Okay?"

"Ask me that after I finish giving birth," said Harry. She tried to roll over. "Bloody hell, ouch." Finally she'd manoeuvred onto her side and curled up next to Clara, holding her tight.

* * *

John scanned the dim, slightly damp expanse of the concrete parking garage. Ten minutes late. Bollocks. Sherlock had missed their scheduled check-in. John pulled out his phone again and double-checked the text message.

The kidnapping case had grown into a hunt for a people-smuggling syndicate. The kidnapping and extortion arm had been apprehended, the last kidnap victim freed with no ransom changing hands – thanks to Sherlock – but as he dug deeper, the murkier the whole thing got.

Now, four weeks later, they seemed to be no nearer to wrapping it all up. It had even involved a very quick trip to the Continent, with John checking his phone every half hour in case he had to make an urgent dash back from Belgium for Harry's labour.

The phone binged just as he was sliding it back in his pocket. He pulled it out.

_Either really regular Braxton Hicks or this is it._

He phoned. "Hey," Harry said a little breathlessly when she picked up.

"It's happening?" John asked. "How far apart?"

"About every fifteen minutes, but it's regular. Not comfortable, but I can keep doing stuff through it."

"Have your waters broken?"

"I don't think so."

"Right, sounds like it will be a little while yet. Keep me up to date – I'm out with Sherlock but as soon as I find him I'll head over."

"Okay, Johnny. Hope this is it. Talk about leaving it 'til the last minute."

John smiled. Harry was due to be induced tomorrow and Clara was booked in for a C-section in two days. "Yeah. You can do it, Harry. How's Clara?"

"She's fine, she's timing me."

"You've got that number I gave you, right? If I'm not there and you need to go to hospital, call Mycroft. Got that?"

"Yes, yes, okay, going now."

John disconnected and hit Sherlock's number on speed dial. Without warning, a sharp blow from behind knocked him sideways. He shoved his phone into his pocket, desperately hoping the call had connected and lashed out instinctively. His elbow made satisfying contact and he tried to keep his footing but a second figure in a balaclava kneed him in the gut and he crashed to the ground. His arms were pulled behind him and a bag thrust over his head.

"What the fuck?"he gasped, winded.

"Shut it," responded one of his assailants, and then swore as John threw his head back and smashed his nose. John wrenched his left arm free but a blow to the jaw knocked him sideways again before he could reach for his gun.

"Fucking–" swore the recipient of John's Glasgow kiss. He kicked John in the ribs. John doubled over in agony. His hands were bound behind his back with a plastic cable tie and he was pulled roughly to his feet.

"Get up," snapped the other assailant, the one without a broken nose. There was a screech of tyres and a car pulled up beside them. Any hopes that it was a rescue party were dashed when John heard the sound of the car boot thunking open.

"Let's see your faggot boyfriend deduce this one."

"Husband, actually," said John, trying to keep his anger in check. This was not the time to do anything rash. They hadn't searched him yet and it was probably a good thing he hadn't gotten to his gun, still tucked safely in his waistband and hidden by his jacket. If he could get his hands free once he was in the boot of the car–

"Fucking poof," slurred the one with the broken nose. John's legs were knocked from under him and he banged his face on the back of the car on the way down. He stayed down, dazed and a bit concerned about the blood running from his nose. He had to open his mouth to breathe and he could taste a sharp coppery tang on his tongue.

"For fuck's sake, don't fucking kill him," spat the other one, and John fought to stay conscious as they tossed him in and slammed the boot shut.

tbc


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's note:** Huge thanks as always to the lovely TsylvestrisA my amazing beta-reader for all her hard work and help. Also big thanks to Mid0nz for wonderfully helpful suggestions. And thanks also for everyone's comments, kudos, book marks, subscriptions - just when I'm ready to throw it all in the bin I get a comment or a subscription and I remember that someone out there is waiting to find out what happened. Apologies for taking so long - this was a monster of a chapter, some real life blah and a missing muse, but it's done!

**Disclaimer:** Although I've done my best to research the scenarios presented in this story in order to provide an accurate and realistic situation, all medical information and depictions of pregnancy and related issues in this story are not intended as advice, medical or otherwise and should not be taken as such. All parenting and pregnancy related opinions expressed by the characters are not necessarily those of the author and their views or actions may contradict current advice on parenting or child-birth best practice.

**Warnings for this chapter:** low-level violence, unpleasant people, child-birth, surgical procedures, related goop.

**Part 12 - In which John is abducted and Harry is in labour.**

Sherlock climbed out the window and slithered down the fire escape. He hit the ground at a run and was two blocks away before he slipped into an alley and pulled out his mobile. He was late for his rendezvous with John but he'd been stuck hiding behind a filing cabinet and his phone had been on silent.

He flicked through the text messages on his phone. None from John, but a missed call. Two minutes ago.

He played the message and ice trickled down his spine. A fight, John ambushed? A sound, John – hit now – stomach. Winded. Surprised, not afraid. Falling. Voice muffled, gag? No. Bag over head. Assailants – two. Both male, one older, mid-forties, other younger – twenty-eight, twenty-nine. Where? Where? John had been trying to call, rendezvous point probably. Sound? Echo – parking garage? Yes, rendezvous point. Ah, John fighting back – broken nose for the younger assailant. Good. A struggle – John hit. Another blow, kick to the side – John injured, ribs. Conscious? Sherlock's own heart rate accelerating, panic – ignore. Think – listen – pay attention. Car arriving – new, Japanese – Toyota. He heard the distinct sound of the car boot opening before the message cut out.

Sherlock swallowed against the tightness in his throat and the coiled sensation, sharp and pounding in his chest. He had to focus. He needed to focus. _This_, this_ caring _– this was why he had tried to stay away after he'd faked his death – he hated this feeling. Oh they both got into danger all the time, but this, this _helplessness_ was different. He hadn't _been there. _It was the knowledge that John was out of his reach and in danger and he couldn't get to him and it was making sick panic churn inside him.

He had to focus. John. John was injured, possible broken ribs, punch to the face, so maybe a fractured jaw or broken nose. They'd restrained him, put a bag over his head, obviously want him alive, weren't just interested in assault – abducted. Easy deduction given their current case – but the other options couldn't be dismissed. Sherlock ignored the chill at the thought. _It hadn't happened, thank God. _

He fumbled at his phone, his fingers frustratingly clumsy. Why John? Why? A message? Or a bargaining chip?

_Received message. Status? _–_ SH_

Not waiting for a reply, he hit the app on his phone to connect to the GPS in John's mobile. Good, it was still on.

Then he dialled Lestrade.

"John's been taken," he said, short and sharp.

* * *

Harry focused on breathing. She felt the contraction build and she imagined she was rising on a wave, higher and higher, until it peaked and crashed and she was left panting. She breathed. Breathed…breathed.

"That's five minutes now sweetie," she heard Clara say.

Her contractions had started about five am. She had lay in bed, willing them on, not wanting to wake Clara or get too excited in case it was another false alarm, like the night before. She dozed in between but the contractions were too uncomfortable to allow her to go back to sleep. Around seven she got up and showered and checked that both their hospital bags were packed and ready. She walked around a bit, brought Clara her breakfast. The contractions kept coming, a low level of discomfort every twenty minutes or so.

It was ten o'clock before she'd called John and her friend Beth. The contractions had increased steadily since then, until now, about two pm, she was sitting on a physio ball leaning over the bed, trying to focus on her breathing and not the steady, building pain that overtook her and blanked out the world for a few minutes. Beth rubbed her back soothingly and Clara lay beside her, stroking her hair and holding her hand.

"Here comes another one," Harry said and she returned to the beach in her mind, focusing on her breath and the waves. _In through the nose, hold, and out, in, hold, out._

"You can do it, baby, you can," Clara murmured. "My brave Harry, you can do it, you can do it."

Harry nodded. She had this. She could do this. _In…out…_

* * *

It was dark in the boot of the car, and John was feeling car sick on top of his splitting headache and aching nose. He'd passed out at first and he wasn't sure how long he'd been unconscious before he'd come to. For a moment he didn't know what had happened, then it came back to him, the attack, the assault, his abduction. Right. And fuck – Harry. Harry was in labour.

He was more concerned about getting over to Harry's in time than about being bundled into the boot of a car. John pulled at his bonds but they were tied fast. He took a deep breath and told himself to calm down. He needed to think. This was not the first time John had been kidnapped; hell, it wasn't even the _third_ time. He and Sherlock pretty much had their 'if one of us is kidnapped' procedure down pat. With a bit of nudging and rubbing against the carpeted floor of the car boot, he'd managed to push the bag off his head. Admittedly, having his wrists tied behind his back was not ideal. He'd never been able to pull his bound arms over his legs from behind his back at the best of times (that is, one particular lazy afternoon spent practicing escape techniques with Sherlock with increasingly lascivious rewards), and now, with a suspected cracked rib and the cramped space of the car boot, it definitely wasn't happening.

Shifting onto his side, he strained his hands towards his jacket pocket, pulling at the fabric until the pocket came within reach of his fingers. He fished out his mobile, cursing his cramped up hands, and dropped it on the floor of the boot so that, looking over his shoulder, he could reach the buttons. After a few fumbles, he unlocked the phone. The screen was open on Sherlock's number and John hit the call button and put it on speaker.

"We're following – GPS. Are you all right?" Sherlock said as soon as he answered.

"Good, that's good. I wasn't sure if the call had gone through earlier." He looked around the cramped space, the light of the mobile illuminating it somewhat. There was a fluorescent handle to unlatch the boot from the inside. John laughed. "How far are you? I can pop the boot, but my hands are tied and it might be hard to get out."

"Ten minutes behind. Stay on the line."

John shuffled around so he could speak into the phone more comfortably.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock asked again.

John could hear the edge in Sherlock's voice. "Fine. I'm fine," he said. "Could do with a pint but apart from that, just waiting for my husband to show up."

Sherlock laughed – a short bark that sounded more like surprise than humour. "Soon, John. I'll be there soon."

He heard a radio crackle and Lestrade's voice in the background. "You're with Greg?"

"Yes. Unmarked car – silver Saab. Two squad cars are coming in, going to try to cut you off. Next set of lights, be ready to get out and run."

"Right."

"No!" John heard Lestrade bark. "Tell him to stay where he is." He obviously snatched the phone from Sherlock. "John, stay where you are, we'll get to you. Got it?"

"Got it."

John tucked his phone back into his pocket. His hands were starting to go numb but he turned over onto his other side and edged backwards until he was able to grasp the fluorescent handle and got ready to unlatch the boot. He didn't know if he'd be even able to hold his gun so he left it tucked in his trousers.

Suddenly the car took a sharp left turn.

"John! John! Can you hear me?"

John turned his head towards the phone, "Yes! What?"

"They've taken a turn, might be a delay –"

"Okay. I'm fine. Okay?"

* * *

Sherlock gripped the phone tightly and watched the dot that represented John's phone. Lestrade had been on his way to meet Sherlock anyway when he'd called, but still the delay had been excruciating and all Sherlock had been able to do was follow John's path with the GPS until the DI had screeched to a halt beside him and Sherlock had flung himself into the car.

John had called. John was fine. Injured. Using humour to hide his discomfort but still_ John _– fine.  
The car was going along side streets now, heading west. Sherlock was barking directions at Lestrade. when suddenly the signal failed. Sherlock glanced at the Saab's GPS. They still had a signal – it was John's phone that had disappeared.

"John? Can you hear me?"

No answer.

"JOHN!"

Sherlock zoomed in on the street directory, flicked the address over to Google maps, street view. A warehouse. Underground parking.

"Turn left," he snapped at Lestrade. "They've gone into a warehouse."

* * *

The car slowed. John grunted as it drove over a speed bump, jostling him against the floor of the car. The car continued down an incline and suddenly his phone went silent. From the screech of the tyres John could tell they were in some sort of car park. Underground. Shit.

The car was slowing. Sherlock would have lost his signal and how far away were the patrol cars now? Should he try to make a run for it? John unlatched the boot of the car and pushed open the lid. Yep, underground car park. They were going too fast for him to jump out now and not break both his legs. Shit. Shit.

The car screeched around another pillar and came to a halt. They were in a private garage. John saw a sliding gate slowly closing behind him. Not good, being trapped with rescue on the other side of the gate. He pushed the boot open with his shoulders and rose into a crouch. He tried to step out but tripped and fell heavily on one arm and his face. Swearing, he got to his knees and then his feet and ran. Two more metres – the gate was nearly closed. He heard shouting behind him but threw himself forward and fell through before the gate slid shut.

There was a gunshot and more yelling and John got to his feet again and started running.

Suddenly he heard sirens and the sound of tyres screeching down into the car park. He ducked behind a pillar just as two patrol cars drove past, sirens flashing, and squealed to a stop in front of the security gate. He could see his two assailants scrambling for the stairwell, and two of the officers went running to the door on their side of the gate. A silver Saab, boasting a flashing light, squealed down the ramp right behind them and skidded to a halt beside him.

Lestrade and Sherlock jumped out of the car and John, chest heaving, sagged against the concrete in relief. Lestrade pelted off down to his officers, warrant badge out. Sherlock caught John by the shoulders.

"All right?" he demanded, voice sharp, eyes wide as his gaze roamed over John's features. "John – your face –"

"Possible concussion. Nose, might be broken. Suspected fractured cheekbone." He gave a choked laugh, adrenalin and relief flooding through him. "Now I'll never be a teen model," he said with a grin, feeling light-headed and silly. He winced as a stab of pain shot through him, and groaned. "I think I have a cracked rib."

Sherlock dragged him forcibly back to the Saab and seated him in the back, sliding in next to him. He freed John's hands and then checked him over, eyes sharp, hands moving swiftly over his body, checking his nose, finally stilling at his cheek. John stopped rubbing circulation back into his wrists and hands and met Sherlock's tense gaze a little ruefully.

"Thanks," he said.

"I suppose you're going to tell me you're fine and I shouldn't have worried," snapped Sherlock.

"I am fine, but I'm bloody glad you're here."

"Drink this." Sherlock handed him a bottle of water. "I called Lestrade when I got your message and we found you soon enough."

John took a long drink. "I knew you would," he said and leaned his head back against the car seat.  
Sherlock grunted and kissed his lips – too hard at first but softening at John's sound of pain, and then sat back with a puff of breath. He glared at John. "What happened?"

John reached up and shifted a curl from Sherlock's brow. "I went to the meeting point and they jumped me. I think it was supposed to be a message to you."

"What did they say – details, John, I need details."

John went back over what had happened. Sherlock's face was impassive as he listened but his eyes did flicker when John recounted the 'deduce this' comment.

"Stay here," he said.

"Sherlock – " said John, knowing it was a waste of breath. Sherlock gave him a sharp look and then he was gone. John went to follow him but the pain in his side and the wave of dizziness made him sink back onto the car seat.

* * *

"Oi!" shouted Lestrade as Sherlock passed him.

"Wait with John," he ordered Lestrade.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock, don't do anything stupid!" Lestrade called after him.

"I'm never stupid," Sherlock shouted back.

Sherlock was _furious._ John's safe return had morphed the fear that had threatened to cripple him into cold, vindictive rage.

He pushed past the police officers sorting out the crime scene. They'd opened the security gate and were talking on their radios to their colleagues upstairs. The two suspects were sitting handcuffed in a police car. Sometimes the Met managed not to be completely incompetent. He slid into the driver's seat and shut the door behind him. He locked the doors and shifted the rear-vision mirror so he could see the two men.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as they looked at him sullenly through the mirror. Details, pointless data, flittered through his consciousness and he filtered it – ah, broken nose where John had head-butted one of his assailants, good – sore ribs, too. Brave, strong John.

"What are you looking at?" the one without the broken nose demanded.

Sherlock's glare made the man flinch. "A weak-willed, petty criminal who hasn't been able to hold down the last three – no, four – legal jobs he's been hired for. When you get home, you'll get an earful about why you haven't paid the electric bill. There'll be no sex; girlfriend's a bit on the ugly side, you imagine you're batting below your average. You're wrong, of course; it's only her low self-esteem that makes her put up with you, but even she's not been interested of late, has she? You've been reduced to paying an enterprising lad down at the pub for regular blowjobs in the lavatory."

The man turned red and shot a quick look at his companion. "What! I have not. I'll have you, you bastard–" the man lunged forward at Sherlock, who merely slammed his seat back at the same time, causing the man to howl as it made contact with his nose. "Oh, look, a matching set," said Sherlock with a nasty smirk. He looked through the mirror at the other one.

"And you: drug addict, you need the money, but you also enjoy the work, don't you, being a big tough man, making those soft, rich victims cry. Only this time you picked on someone a bit tougher and meaner than little girls or scared investment bankers. John Watson gave you as good as he got, and you're just lucky there were two of you or I'd be expecting to find your body in the morgue. Does your mother know what you do for a living?"

"You leave my Mum out of it."

Sherlock turned then, leaning between the two front seats. "Oh, _I_ will, but I imagine she'll be distressed when she reads about it in the paper tomorrow."

The one with blood running from his nose predictably decided to opt for bravado. "You're just pissed 'cause we touched your little fuck-toy, but there's nothing you can do. You're just a big shite-talking cock–"

"Quiet!" Sherlock's hand snapped out and closed around the man's throat. These men were nothing. Nothing. And they had hurt John and caused him to be afraid. He wanted to hurt them in return, make them beg and tremble. It would be easy. He could drive away. They were handcuffed; he could do what he wanted to them. It was only the knowledge of what he'd lose if he acted on his current impulse that stayed his hand. He lowered his deep baritone voice, quiet and dangerous. "If I weren't concerned about my work and my dry-cleaning bill, I would make you hurt." He squeezed and the man spluttered and turned puce. His partner made protesting noises that Sherlock ignored. "Tell your friends: if anyone you know ever, _ever_ lays a finger on John Watson again, I will have you sent down so very, very far that you'll never see the light of day again. Oh, don't doubt you'll go to prison now – that's a given – but I can make you disappear, legally and permanently. I've done it before and I will not hesitate to do it again." He released his grip. "Now," Sherlock said brightly, looking between the two of the suspects, "how about you tell me everything your little minds can imagine that I'd like to know." He smiled a shark's smile.

* * *

Harry pressed her face into the pillow and breathed…breathed…breathed…the wave was cresting…another breath….and then…crashing down and swirling and she breathed again until finally the contraction passed. She lay there panting for another moment until reality returned.

"Have you heard from John?" she asked.

Clara checked both their phones again and shook her head. "Do you want to go into hospital now, sweetie?" she asked.

Harry nodded. "Yeah."

Clara picked up the phone and called the hospital, then held the phone as Harry answered questions about how she was feeling and how far apart the contractions were. The midwife told her to come in as soon as she was ready.

Clara made another call. "Mr Holmes? It's Clara Davies. Sorry - Mycroft. Oh no, I'm fine; Harry's gone into labour. John said – yes, the car. Thank you. Oh, thank you. Yes, we would love you to visit them both." She ended the call. "Car's on its way."

Harry nodded. "Okay. Send John a text, would you?"

* * *

"All right, John?" Greg asked, leaning in the passenger door. "Bloody hell, they did a number on you."

John grinned painfully. "Bit sore; I'll live."

"Bit sore, my fat aunt. You're going to A&E, mate. No wonder Sherlock's gone off to tear those toe rags a new one."

"God, see what Sherlock's up to would you? Stop him doing something stupid, yeah?"

"Yeah, thought I'd give him a minute's head start. You'll be right?"

"Yeah, yeah, just – Sherlock."

"On it," said Lestrade and ducked out again.

Ten minutes later, Sherlock slid into the car beside him and Lestrade jumped into the driver's seat.

"All right?" John asked.

"Perfectly," said Sherlock shortly. He settled back in his seat and looked out the window, tapping his fingers on the door.

"Dropping you two off at A&E. You can do the paperwork later," said Greg. "Well done; that'll be enough to shut down the operation, and Interpol are going to be kissing my arse for a long time as well."

"You've been busy, then?" John asked Sherlock.

Sherlock looked at him briefly. "Yes, I got the papers and I was able to get access to Rufus George's computer, downloaded his hard drive – that's why I was late to meet you."

"That's brilliant," murmured John.

Sherlock turned back to the window but he did reach over and take John's hand.

"Oh, fuck – Harry!" John suddenly exclaimed. He grabbed his phone. "She was having contractions just before I got kidnapped. Shit, they might be at the hospital already."

He looked at his phone and saw three missed calls and two texts. The last one was from Clara, saying that they were leaving for the hospital. He tried calling but the phone went through to voicemail.

John swore.

Two hours later, they finally finished up at A&E. Sherlock had hovered over John the entire time, bothering the various health professionals, and John had tapped his fingers impatiently with each delay. John's nose was fractured but not displaced, and his cheekbone was just bruised so no treatment was prescribed aside from pain killers, a good cleaning, and some antiseptic. As suspected, his rib was cracked, but there wasn't much to be done for that aside from rest. He had a mild concussion and Sherlock had snapped at the doctor that he knew very well what symptoms to watch out for, _thank you_. Finally they were free to go.

The maternity hospital was halfway across London. John tapped the fingers of one hand on the armrest as they rode and held Sherlock's tightly with the other. Sherlock was unusually quiet.

"You okay?" he asked.

Sherlock glanced towards him, expression closed. John kept his gaze steady until finally Sherlock sighed. "Maybe we should move to the countryside and keep bees."

John laughed in surprise. "Okay," he said and squeezed Sherlock's hand. "But not yet. You're not ready to retire."

Sherlock looked straight ahead, a flicker of pain crossing his features. "It's dangerous, John, what we do. Having you with me is non-negotiable, but perhaps I can be happy doing something less…hazardous."

"No. You love your work. You'd resent me in a month if you gave it up." John rubbed his thumb against Sherlock's. "And what about me? You're going to deny me the chance to follow you around basking in your brilliance?"

Sherlock quirked a small smile. "And people say I'm the mad one."

John grinned. "That's why we're so suited." He reached up and cupped Sherlock's jaw. "I'm fine," he said firmly. "You're going to have to be gentle with me for the next six weeks or so, but I'm fine."

Sherlock pulled him into a sudden, fierce kiss. John drew back, wincing. "Ow, watch the nose. I said _gentle._"

Sherlock snickered and John smirked and giggled a bit stupidly, still riding the adrenaline high, until Sherlock leaned in again with a gentle, much longer kiss this time.

After a brief delay they were allowed into Harry's birthing suite. Harry was kneeling on the bed, gripping the headboard, head bowed. Her friend Beth was rubbing her back and Clara was sitting beside her in a wheelchair, rubbing her thigh.

"You can do it, baby, you can do it," Clara was saying in a low voice.

John stopped, a shot of fear running through him as he watched his sister arch her back and whimper. He felt Sherlock take his hand and squeeze. And then Harry sank down, resting her head on a pillow, panting. Beth stroked her hair from her forehead and offered her a sip of water.

"Sherlock and John are here," Clara said, glancing towards them.

"How is she – how's it going?" John asked.

"She's doing wonderfully," said Beth, smiling at Harry.

"God, John, what happened to you?" Clara exclaimed, looking at John properly.

"Um, accident with a car," said John.

Clara and Beth gaped at him and even Harry turned unfocused eyes towards him.

"I'm fine," said John, not wanting them to worry. The kidnapping anecdote could wait until no one was giving birth at exactly this moment. He came over to Harry. "Hey, Harry, how are you?"

Harry managed a laugh. "Okay. I'm okay. Glad you're here. You look like shit."

John grinned. "Should we stay? Do you want us here?"

"You – can – stay-" Harry managed and then turned her face back into the pillow and lifted up again.

"Breathe, breathe," murmured Beth as another contraction started.

John felt Sherlock move to his side and take his hand as they both watched Harry work through the contraction.

"I don't think I can do this anymore," she gasped. "Oh, God–"

"You're doing great," murmured Clara. "You're doing wonderfully."

"I can't. I need something. Need -"

"Think about the wave, Harry," said Beth. "Breathe in, that's it, out…in…"

"No. I need something. I need something."

"What do you need, Harry?" Clara asked.

"Some drugs. Need some drugs."

"You're doing well, sweetie," said Clara. "You can do this."

"I NEED SOME FUCKING DRUGS!"

John looked at Clara. When she nodded, he hit the nurse call button.

A midwife came in, talked to Harry, checked her vitals, and then showed Harry how to use the Entonox. "This will take the edge off, but you'll need to breathe."

Harry nodded and clutched the mouthpiece.

"Nitrous oxide and oxygen," murmured Sherlock, watching in fascination.

Harry moaned and bent over the pillows again, this time breathing in the gas. Once the contraction had peaked, she thrust the mouthpiece away.

"Good girl," said the midwife. John looked away as she checked Harry's cervix. "You're getting close. You're doing well. Doctor will be in shortly to check on you."

John felt useless. "Can I do anything?" he asked Clara.

She glanced at Beth. "Why don't you take over here for a little while so Beth can get a coffee and nip to the loo?"

"You sure?" Beth asked.

"Go on," said John. He put his hand reassuringly on Harry's shoulder. "All right?" he asked.

Harry nodded. "God, give me a neck rub, please, Johnny," she said.

John grinned. "All right Harr," he said. He glanced over at Sherlock, who was looking a bit lost and eyeing the expensive equipment with a bit too much interest. "Sherlock? How about a snack – something for Clara and me too? Haven't exactly had a chance to eat much today."

Sherlock looked up, raked his gaze over John, and for once didn't argue but swept out of the room.

* * *

The gas was helping. Harry could still feel the peak of the contraction but it was dulled and the build-up wasn't as uncomfortable. It did feel physically as if she'd been drinking; her face felt numb and she was a bit lightheaded, which was disconcerting but not enough to go without the gas. She could do this now.

Measures of time had disappeared. Instead there was the contraction and the in-between. She heard Clara and Beth and the midwife and John and Sherlock. Doctor Werner came in and asked her questions, and between it all she breathed and rode the wave up and over and came out the other side.

There seemed to be very little break between the contractions now and she clung to the gas mouthpiece and gasped for breath between and it didn't seem to be helping as much anymore. She felt like she needed to bear down, and the midwife was beside her, telling her she was doing a good job. Suddenly she was afraid and she _couldn't_ and she told Clara that and Clara rubbed her arm and talked to her and Harry _couldn't_ and said she couldn't. And…she couldn't help it, she bore down and God, it felt like having the gastro – and the clenching waves just kept going and then she stopped pushing and it stopped too.

"That's good, good girl, you're doing well, that's it," she heard the midwife say. She was lifted up and the midwife was on one side and Beth and Clara on the other. And she _couldn't_ but Clara held her hand and kissed her arm and told her how wonderful she was and told her she could, told her she could do this. And Harry screamed on the next contraction and then Doctor Werner was there and she needed Harry on her back. And it hurt. Oh God, it hurt, but she lay down and it was too painful and the midwife moved her onto her side and held her leg and she held onto Clara so tightly as they told her to push.

And push…and push…once…twice…more and then…then at last…at last, the baby cried and breathed and then Doctor Werner handed Harry her baby girl. Harry took the little thing into her arms.

"Oh! Hello, beautiful," she said, and something inside her glowed as she looked at the poor, messy, goo-covered little creature with a shock of dark hair. She held her so, so carefully against her bare skin. She looked at Clara and Clara was crying and kissing her cheek and her lips.

"You did it, you did it," she said. "Oh, Harry, baby, you did it."

* * *

There had been more blood than Sherlock had expected – useful data – but it had seemed so violent and animalistic, not far removed from a crime of passion – Harriet, held in place by the midwife and her partner, screaming and labouring (there was a reason for that term, obviously), and the blood – not just blood - before finally the baby had been born. Clara had cut the cord, and the placenta (a fascinatingly large organ that Harry and Clara disappointingly refused to let him keep) was delivered.

The time of birth was pronounced as 11.02pm.

"A big sister after all," laughed Clara.

But Harry's face as the child was placed on her chest – it was as if none of the past few hours had even happened.

Clara was taking photographs now and Harry was smiling at her wife and her baby. The obstetrician was still stitching Harry – two tears – but she didn't even seem to notice.

Sherlock felt a moment of disconnect and then the knowledge came to him: this was his child. Harry glanced up at him and saw him watching.

"Do you guys want to meet her?" she asked.

Sherlock stepped forward with John. He considered the small, squashed-face creature, still covered with blood and white vernix, with its black hair and tiny stick limbs. He reached forward his right index finger and tentatively touched its fingers, achingly small but perfectly formed, with tiny fingernails and little wrinkles at the knuckles. She was so very, very fragile. This tiny thing; he felt a tightness in his chest and he gently, very, very lightly touched his fingertips to her hair.

Sherlock swallowed and glanced at John. He didn't know, didn't know what to do and he felt – what was he supposed to feel?

John beamed at him and moved closer. He stroked her hand gently, and then Sherlock saw it, that soft, gooey look, _there,_ that he'd had with Molly's baby, the look that had made Sherlock ache because he hadn't thought he could make John look like that and now he had and it was because of this baby. His _daughter._ _Their _daughter.

The baby made a small sound and nuzzled at Harry's breast.

"She's trying to latch," Harry said to Clara excitedly.

Sherlock dropped his hand and stepped back as Clara moved closer. John was looking at him with an arrested expression. Sherlock couldn't help the grin that tugged at the corners of his mouth. He pulled John to him and kissed him swiftly on the lips.

"You must be Mycroft's little brother," Doctor Werner said as she brushed past them. "Congratulations!"

"Charlotte Werner," Sherlock replied, making the connection. Ah. So that was how Mycroft had arranged this. He should have placed the name, but he hadn't taken much interest in Mycroft's university relationships. Sherlock had to admit that she was calm and competent and not as ignorant as some – it wasn't inconceivable that Mycroft had considered her worthy of his time for a while. Doctor Werner gave him a polite but brisk smile and turned to Clara and Harry.

"Well, parents, do we have a name for our little bundle?" Doctor Werner asked.

Harry and Clara smiled at each other. "We thought - Audrey Mary Beth Watson," said Harry.

"Oh, Harry!" exclaimed Beth, obviously touched.

Sherlock glanced quickly at John. He was looking down, shoulders tense. He nodded, as if to himself.

"Johnny?" Harry asked. "Is that okay? We thought - we wanted Mary to be remembered."

He looked up, his smile a bit lopsided and not quite right, but not in an _unhappy_ way. "That's, that's nice, Harry, yeah."

"Sherlock?" Clara asked.

He nodded. "It's a good name. Mary is an appropriate addition." It was; it had made John happy. He reached out and took John's hand. John looked at him, head tilted to one side, then smiled at him with a soft, fond look.

* * *

Watching Harry give birth had been terrifying and disconcerting. John was no stranger to the realities of childbirth; he'd helped deliver a baby during his tour of duty in Afghanistan, for Pete's sake, but seeing his _sister_ – it had made him want to protect her, to stop the pain she was experiencing. And then she'd done it, had pushed the little girl out into the world. And she was safe and healthy and alive. For a moment, John was back two and a half years ago, with Mary, planning the birth of their baby, and this should have been Mary here, this should have been that little girl. That little precious creature that he had loved, had come to love. But it wasn't, and for a moment John felt that same devastating loss that had crippled him over two years ago. But then Sherlock had looked at the baby and had looked up at John with such wonder and confusion that the tightness in his chest had melted away and he was _here _again, in the noise and buzz of the hospital. And he was looking at Sherlock's baby, _their _baby.

He'd been incredibly touched when Harry and Clara had given the baby Mary as a middle name. Harry had loved Mary too, and they remembered her and acknowledged how much she'd meant to John, and that he'd once been planning for another baby that had never arrived.

The baby was so tiny and precious. John felt overwhelmed by the responsibility they'd been handed along with this fragile little thing. He was terrified to touch her, let alone hold her. She mewled against Harry and something in John's midsection lurched. Perfect. She was utterly perfect. Sherlock seemed to be feeling the same way, his eyes wide and startled as if he'd just encountered something he couldn't understand. He knew the feeling. He held Sherlock's hand tightly. They were in this together.

"Clara?" Harry said suddenly.

He glanced up at his sister's tone. She was looking at Clara, who was leaning forward, a tense expression on her face.

"It's – um – it's probably –"

"Doctor Werner!" Harry said, the words laced with panic.

The doctor, in the process of removing her gloves, followed Harry's gaze. "Clara?"

Clara frowned. "I'm having some pain – I mean, it might just be Braxton Hicks but–"

The doctor glanced at the midwife and then pulled on a clean set of gloves. "That's a contraction," Doctor Werner said moments later, her hands on Clara's stomach.

Everything happened very fast. Within minutes, a second bed had been wheeled in and Clara was being examined.

"We're going to have to do an emergency C-section," said Doctor Werner with remarkable calm. "I'm afraid Harry won't be able to come in with you. Is there somebody else you'd like to be there?"

Clara exchanged glances with Harry, who nodded. "John? Would you come?"

John swallowed, the clarity of the emergency focusing him until he was steady, calm. "Yes, of course," he said, looking at Sherlock. "You'll stay with Harry and Audrey?"

Sherlock nodded and John followed Doctor Werner as Clara was wheeled out.

* * *

If there wasn't much for John to do with Harry's labour, there was even less for Clara's. It was such an early stage in Clara's labour that Doctor Werner decided a general anesthetic wasn't necessary. Clara was given an epidural and prepped for surgery. John wore scrubs and stood at the business end of the screen and watched the process – all the complications he'd read about running through his mind, from necessary blood transfusions to a hysterectomy or the very worst, which was unthinkable. Remembered loss and grief made his pulse quicken and he had to shove down the fear. When Doctor Werner lifted the terribly small baby from Clara's body and pronounced him a healthy boy, John felt nothing but relief. The baby was smaller than Audrey but not as squashed-looking, and when he gasped for breath and then started to cry, John broke into a grin. This was his son. John cut the cord as the baby was handed to Clara for a brief hold.

He went to Clara's side. She was looking adoringly at the little mite.

"Hamish Davies Watson," she said, and smiled at John. "It suits him, don't you think?"

"It does," he agreed. "He's perfect." The little furrowed face glared up at him and John's heart missed a beat. Tiny and perfect and his: John felt a surge of protectiveness and pride.

"He is, isn't he?"

"You did wonderfully," John said.

"I think he looks a bit like Harry, don't you think?"

John studied the cross little face. "He looks a lot like Winston Churchill, but I think he might have Harry's mouth."

Clara smiled. "And her frown."

"Hang on, that's my frown," said John, grinning.

"Nope, definitely Harriet's," said Clara. She smiled up at John and he smiled back.

"Uh, here," he said, clearing his throat. "Want me to take a photo?" Beth had thrust the camera at him as he'd followed after Clara and he took a few shots.

"Would you like some of the two of you with Baby?" one of the nurses asked.

Clara smiled at John. "Yes, thanks." She looked sideways at John. "Your poor face ."

John touched his nose ruefully. "I thought the babies needed an interesting anecdote for their birth story."

He bent down next to Clara and Hamish, and the nurse took a couple of snaps. Clara touched John's non-injured cheek. "Thanks," she said. "We couldn't have done this without you both, you especially."

John ducked his head, pleased. "You and Harry are the ones we should be thanking."

Clara looked at him fondly. "You're okay? I hadn't really thought about, but this must be a bit bittersweet."

"Yes, but this is a new start. It feels – I don't know, like a second chance." He frowned. Maybe he should be feeling more, but by now the grief had faded and there was only relief and happiness and an aching wonder that _this _time, they had two healthy babies. "It was nice, you two naming Audrey after Mary."

Clara smiled. "I'm glad you didn't mind. I hoped you wouldn't."

John nodded. He felt wistful now at the memory of a girl with red hair and a gorgeous laugh, and suddenly he wanted to see Sherlock, to share this with him, to remember again that he wasn't alone anymore.

Clara must have guessed what he was feeling. "Would you like to go show Harry and Sherlock the picture of Hamish and let them know everything's fine?"

"Yeah, if you'll be okay? I won't be too long."

"I'll be fine. I have my little man here with me," she said, smiling at Hamish.

tbc


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's Note:** Thanks as always to my outstanding beta TsylvestrisA - who's been so generous with her support throughout this story (I really never meant it to be this long). Of course any errors, typos etc are my own. Thanks to everyone who left comments, reviews, kudos or favourited and bookmarked - your support definitely helped get this baby across the line.

**Warnings/content for this chapter:** m/m sexy times, finally some actual parentlock.

**Disclaimer:** this is not meant to be parenting advice, definitely not meant to be parenting advice. Some techniques may not be considered parenting best practice.

**Part 13**

Sherlock finally met Hamish in Harry and Clara's hospital room. He looked at the sombre little face: he could identify some of Clara's features, but that was John's frown and John's chin, and when Hamish blinked open his little blue eyes and fixed them on Sherlock he looked exactly like a cross little John. Unlike Audrey, Hamish was nearly bald, soft downy hairs covering his little head. Sherlock touched his hand gently and Hamish clenched his finger in his tiny fist. Sherlock's breath caught and he reached out his other hand for John's.

"A son," said Sherlock. A second tiny person to care about. He felt that same tight feeling in his chest and an overwhelming sense of protectiveness. It made him feel weak. Is this what other parents felt? It was terrifying. No wonder they would do anything for their children. Sherlock was ready to kill for his and they were only hours old. "Is that good, John?"

"Yes. Yes it is."

Sherlock looked at John then and found him looking back, his smile a little wobbly.

"Our son, John," said Sherlock. It was a simple concept yet it seemed beyond his comprehension.

John squeezed his hand very tightly. "Two healthy children, Sherlock. We're very lucky," he said quietly.

Sherlock noted the dark shadows under his husband's eyes, the grey tint to his skin. John's expression was tight and he was holding his arm against his injured side. His bruises had deepened, too. A pang of guilt – unfamiliar emotion – assailed him. He should be taking better care of John. "Home," he said firmly.

* * *

It was dawn when John and Sherlock left the hospital. John was tired but still high on adrenaline. Harry and Clara were safe in bed in their shared private room, the babies nestled in their little cribs next to them. No complications, all fine. Clara was still covered in tubes thanks to the epidural and C-section, but Harry had been able to shower and walk a bit by the time they'd left.

Sherlock put his arm around John in the cab home and John gratefully leant his head against his husband's shoulder. He shut his eyes.

"I'm assuming that's just exhaustion and not concussion," murmured Sherlock.

"Exhaustion," said John.

Sherlock squeezed his arm. "Sleep, then," he said gently and John allowed himself to doze off until they arrived at Baker Street.

Sherlock fussed a little, slipping his hand around John's waist and making John lean on him as they went up the stairs to their flat. John's ribs were killing him and he just wanted to lie down and not move.

"I'm fine," John insisted once they were inside, but he swayed a little as he tried to take off his coat. He heard Sherlock make a frustrated noise and in a moment he was stripping off John's coat and leading him into the bedroom where he set about undressing him and getting him into bed. John groaned as his aching body settled down on the mattress. Sherlock stripped off his own clothes and slid into bed, very gently arranging himself around John. He sighed.

"Big day," said John, sliding his bare leg against Sherlock's. He liked being wrapped in naked Sherlock. His cock gave a half-hearted twitch.

"If you call getting kidnapped, knocked unconscious, terrifying your husband, escaping from an abduction attempt and then attending the births of not one but two children merely 'big', then yes, I suppose you could say that."

John chuckled; it made his ribs hurt a bit. "I'm sorry I terrified you."

"I was late," said Sherlock quietly. "If I hadn't been–"

"Sherlock, what we do – it's never been safe."

Sherlock rolled onto his back. "I hate this. It used to be fun, but now I just remember what it was like without you and I cannot do that again. I cannot, John."

John's mouth went dry. He reached out a hand for Sherlock. "I know, I know. I feel it every time you go off on your own. I worry you'll try to do it all by yourself again and not tell me." He bit his lip. "I feel alive when I'm with you, when we're doing mad, dangerous things. I don't want to stop." Sherlock turned back towards him and John brushed his knuckles over Sherlock's cheek. "We need to be a team; as long as we're a team we'll be fine."

Sherlock's mouth curled up on one side. "I'm still considering the bees option."

John huffed a laugh – less painful that way. "I suppose." He considered it for a moment and grinned. "You could be like Miss Marple or those blokes on Midsommer Murders or what have you. If television has taught me anything, it's that those small country villages are rife with criminal behaviour."

"Popular culture," noted Sherlock. He hooked a leg over John's, canting his hips against John's side.

"Miss Marple – Agatha – never mind."

Sherlock nuzzled at his shoulder. "You could be like that doctor – the one with the big ears at the seaside."

John petted his hair. "My God, you remember Doc Martin but you don't know about Agatha Christie's classic meddling old lady?"

Sherlock sniffed. "It made me think of you," he said in a slightly wounded tone. "Puttering around a seaside village with a little black bag. I would solve smuggling cases and anything the imbecilic local police constable couldn't manage, so practically everything."

John chuckled. "That's why you remember? You had a little fantasy about me being Doc Martin and living in Portwenn."

"Admittedly the doctor is more like me. An amalgam of the two of us would be more accurate: your doctoring skills, my acute mind and refusal to tolerate morons."

John laughed. "Rude and arrogant, you mean. Maybe I'm the sexy school teacher, then, who doesn't take any of your guff."

"Are you going to sleep or not?" Sherlock said. "Honestly, John, you do rabbit on about nothing sometimes."

John giggled a bit. He shut his eyes but sleep wouldn't come. He was still keyed up and the chat with Sherlock had only roused him. The sounds of the waking world filtered into their bedroom from the street below, along with morning light. He sighed and shifted against Sherlock, also rather aware that his husband was naked and he was only in his briefs. Sherlock nudged back.

"Can't sleep," said John.

Sherlock pressed an open-mouthed kiss to John's shoulder and ran a hand down his stomach, avoiding his ribs, finishing tantalisingly close but not quite at his groin. John's arousal flared – adrenaline, danger, plus the emotional highs of the evening combined with these simple touches to fuel his libido.

"Perhaps I have the solution," murmured Sherlock, mouthing along his shoulder to the sensitive juncture at the base of his throat. His erection nudged against John's thigh.

"Mm, tempted," said John, arching his neck. "But I can't move much."

"Hmm," Sherlock's hand palmed John's growing erection through his pants, "hardly…" a lick at the pulse point in his throat, "insurmountable."

John's eyes flickered closed. Yes, that was just what he needed. He reached up to slide his fingers through Sherlock's hair.

Sherlock found his lips and kissed softly, gently cradling his jaw with his hand. He drew back for a moment. "My John," he murmured.

John's heart skipped and he pressed his fingertips to Sherlock's cheek, opening his eyes to look into Sherlock's blue-green ones. "I love you," he said simply, honestly. And Sherlock took his mouth again.

John sank into the kiss. He was physically and emotionally worn out and he let Sherlock lead, stripping him completely, stroking him and kissing him into a slowly growing thrum of need. With a low groan, Sherlock straddled John's hips, and keeping his weight off, returned to his steady exploration of John's mouth. He felt the tantalising brush of Sherlock's erection against his own and it made him groan in return.

Sherlock kissed him once more on the lips and then began his descent downwards, mouth burning a trail from sternum to belly before ghosting teasingly over his cock. John cursed as Sherlock finally took mercy on him and enveloped him in his hot mouth.

John let his eyes close. He was so tired he felt almost drunk with it. He was only aware of Sherlock's mouth, Sherlock's tongue, heat and wet and the building tight ache low in his belly and his groin, until finally his climax overtook him, long and pulsing. He reached ineffectually for Sherlock.

"Thanks, mmm, 's good," he said, voice slurred, trying to pry his eyes open.

Sherlock groaned and shifted John's fumbling hand to his thigh and took his erection in hand. "I'll do it. Don't want you falling asleep halfway through."

John stroked his thigh in apology and did his best to stay awake. It didn't take Sherlock long, gripping John's forearm tight with one hand as he thrust into his own fist and told John all the ways he was going to have him when he was better and then came hard all over John's stomach. He snagged the sheet and wiped John off, then curled back down close against him.

"Sleep, John," Sherlock murmured, and kissed his injured cheek.

John curled his hand around the nape of Sherlock's neck and was halfway to a kiss as he fell asleep.

It must have been about midday when John woke. The room was hot and full of light, despite the drawn curtains. Sherlock was sitting beside him, his laptop cushioned on a pillow on his bare lap, typing away.

"What's my name?" Sherlock asked, noticing he was awake.

John flopped an arm towards him. "Sherlock Sexy Pants Holmes."

The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched. "What's your name?"

"John Give Us A Snog Watson," John grinned. "I'm not concussed."

"We'll see about that. Who's the Prime Minister?"

"You don't even know who the Prime Minister is."

"I could look it up. What time was our daughter born?"

"11.02 pm, there–" John tried to move but his muscles screamed in protest. "Oh, oh, oh, God. Sherlock, I need a massage."

Sherlock finished typing and put the laptop on the floor. He grabbed a torch off the bedside table and crouched on the bed beside John, prying open his eyes and shining the torch in first one then the other. Satisfied that there were no signs of concussion, he tossed the torch away.

"Your face is a mess," he said running light fingertips across John's cheek. John winced as his fingers pressed against his nose. He knew he must look a sight but Sherlock's expression showed neither distaste nor distress, just interest. Sherlock pressed a kiss to the corner of hi's mouth on the non-damaged side before shifting down. His fingers ghosted lightly over John's ribs. John peered down, assessing the bruising himself. Not as bad as it felt.

"Wait there," said Sherlock.

"What – oh."

Sherlock was back with his phone and was snapping pictures of John's bruising. "Glad I can be of service," John grumbled.

"We might as well get some benefit from this."

"If you're quite finished ogling my wounds, I'd rather like that massage now."

Sherlock smirked and tossed the phone aside. He leaned his naked body across John to grab the massage oil from the bedside table in what, John thought, was a deliberately provocative manner. He gave Sherlock's pert bare arse a slap which elicited a rumbled sound of pleasure from the lanky bastard as he shifted back onto the bed.

"Do you want a massage or not?" Sherlock demanded in mock annoyance.

"Yes, please, need one."

Sherlock set to work, first on John's shoulders, then down over his chest and uninjured side before rolling John carefully onto his stomach. He worked the knots and tension out of John's neck, shoulders and back before sliding his slick hands down. John groaned as Sherlock's amazing fingers worked his glutes and moved down to massage his thighs, calves and finally feet.

"Roll over," Sherlock said then. John obeyed and his mouth went dry as he took in the sight of Sherlock naked and semi-aroused.

John felt his own cock twitch in response and he didn't even try to stifle his groan when Sherlock crawled up between his knees and ran his tongue down his whole length. Sherlock's mouth was obscenely good – warm and wet and that tongue – oh bloody hell, that tongue. John was beginning to enjoy this not-able-to-do-much-but-lie-here business.

Sherlock, however, had other ideas and John let out a whimper of protest when he let John's cock fall from his lips with a plop. He rose up onto his knees, applied a liberal amount of oil to his fingers and reached back, pressing himself down onto them. John bit his lip and gripped the sheets. He could never get enough of this sight: a delicate flush bloomed on Sherlock's cheeks, his lips were pink and wet and his eyes dark as he sank onto his own long fingers. It always reminded John of the first time Sherlock had buggered him, confessing afterwards to experimenting on himself alone first. Finally Sherlock drew his hand away and reached for John, running slick fingers over his erection. Holding it steady, he straddled his hips and sank down, taking John hilt-deep into his body.

John groaned as delicious tight warmth surrounded him. Sherlock's breath hitched and he bit his bottom lip, eyes fluttering shut, stilling for a moment as he adjusted to his position. John ran his hands soothingly over Sherlock's taut thigh muscles.

"Perfect," breathed John. "You're perfect."

Sherlock leaned forward to kiss at John and then he began to move, slow and careful.

"All right?" Sherlock asked, breath ragged, touching gentle fingers to his ribs.

John nodded, swallowing. "Mm, yeah, 'm fine." He caught Sherlock's hand, lacing their fingers together and Sherlock bent over him, braced on one arm, holding John's hand with the other.

John closed his eyes against the urge to rock up, to lean forward and grip Sherlock's hips and thrust up into him, ribs be damned.

"John–"

He opened his eyes and met Sherlock's blue-green-blue ones, pupil blown wide. He was held there, locked in his gaze as the aching pleasure built, coiling through him, with the perfect tight friction of sliding in and out of Sherlock's body.

"_John_…"

John's fingers dug into Sherlock's thigh. He dragged his lips against Sherlock's as he bent his head for too-brief kisses. "Sherlock…want you, want you Sherlock."

Sherlock kissed at his mouth, off-centre, messy and wet. "I – John – you have me – yours, John."

His hips pumped faster, angled now, and Sherlock was groaning on each downward slide and John couldn't help himself. The pain in his ribs was ignored, dulled, as he thrust up to meet him.

"John, John, John, _John_–" gasped Sherlock. He stiffened, eyes dark and wide as he came, and it was this overcome expression as much as the warmth on John's stomach and the clench of Sherlock's body in orgasm that sent John over the edge.

"Sherlock, fuck, Sherlock, fucking –fuck –love you, oh God–"

He gripped Sherlock's hips hard, holding him still against him, staring into his eyes, as he thrust up and held as he gasped into release. The world stopped for a moment with their eyes locked, chests heaving for breath.

And then it started again and Sherlock pulled off and fell onto the bed beside him, breathing hard.

John glanced at Sherlock and saw him looking back. They both grinned breathlessly.

"All right?" Sherlock asked again.

"Bloody brilliant," panted John.

Sherlock just gave him an inscrutable look then kissed his lips.

* * *

Three am, a week and a day later, John found himself sitting on Harry and Clara's sofa listening to Sherlock play the violin while a baby dozed on his chest. A second baby was lying peacefully in the bassinet by his feet and he really would have liked to lie down himself, but he didn't dare move because Madam Audrey had decreed that this _exact _position was the only one in which she could get a wink of sleep – with her other father playing Brahm's lullaby, of course.

Hamish had already had his turn of nocturnal wakefulness but Sherlock had used up all his frenetic energy walking back and forth until the small but loud bundle had fallen asleep soundly enough to transfer into the bassinet.

Upstairs, Harry and Clara and Clara's mum were getting a few hours sleep between feeds in preparation for the day shift.

This was their second night here, after Harry had dissolved into tears when Hamish had started crying again during their visit. They had both stayed to hold the babies while Harry and Clara got some sleep. Sherlock had also acted as bouncer, impolitely ordering the various well-meaning visitors out after one hour or when Harry or Clara started looking strained, whichever came first. Clara and Harry always smiled apologetically to said visitors, but never actually countermanded Sherlock's decrees. When it came to Harry, Clara and Clara's mum, however, he'd been exceptionally well behaved. He had taken to ignoring anything he considered idiotic and talking to the babies instead.

John discovered, much to his surprise, that Sherlock had actually been busy sending a picture of the babies with the all the vital details to Mycroft, Lestrade, and a few other friends the morning after the births. Mycroft had visited the women and the babies whilst they were still in hospital. John had been there at the time and it had startled him a little when his brother-in-law asked to hold each one and a slightly soft look came over him whilst doing so. He'd sighed slightly when he handed Audrey back to Harry. "She looks like my mother," he'd said. He'd pulled out his phone. "May I?" he'd asked Harry and Clara, and had proceeded to take a photo of each baby.

John had decided then to invite Mycroft over whenever they had the children visit them at their flat.

For his part, he couldn't help beaming with pride as he showed off the infants. He'd already filled one camera card with photos and the blog was starting to take on an altogether different emphasis. Sherlock had even shown him how to make the posts private so only their friends could see the multiple pictures of babies sleeping.

There was something very peaceful about holding a sleeping baby, John decided. He stroked the furry hair above Audrey's ear and kissed her soft forehead and breathed in her warm, milky smell. The baby snored lightly and snuffled. They'd found the babies slept better on their more male chests where there wasn't the enticing smell of milk to wake them. After a while, Sherlock slowed the violin playing to a halt and when Madam didn't stir, slid onto the sofa next to John and plucked her gently from his chest, moving her to his own. She snuffled again but seemed content to listen to Sherlock's heart as much as John's. Hamish gurgled, so, feeling a bit bereft now that Audrey's little warm weight was gone, John took the opportunity to pick him up and nestle him against his chest.

"You're happy," said Sherlock looking at him with a lopsided expression.

John smiled at him. "I am. Are you?"

Sherlock nodded. "Exceedingly so."

John gave Sherlock a wry look. "This was such a good idea of mine – having babies," he said.

Sherlock snorted in quiet amusement. "One of us has to be the genius in this relationship."

John nudged his foot with his toe. "I am glad, Sherlock. Very. Thank you."

Sherlock turned his head and John leant forward to meet him as he took a kiss.

* * *

_About four years later_

"So then Mummy grew Audrey in her tummy and Mama grew you and we were all very happy to meet you both," John finished explaining quickly before any more 'but how's and 'but why's could come up. "And we became one big family, with two mothers and two fathers."

The explanation had opened a can of worms and John had found himself accidentally provoking more and more complicated questions, trying to keep his answers age-appropriate yet accurate. Suddenly he had a lot of sympathy for the 'stork brought them' school of thought.

Hamish had just opened his mouth with another 'but–' when Sherlock and Audrey finally emerged from the Reptile House. Audrey was chatting ninety-to-the-dozen and Sherlock was firing back responses. At nearly four, Audrey had suddenly become lanky, losing all baby plumpness, and was a good head taller than her brother. The dark hair she'd been born with had turned a honey-blonde colour and she and Hamish had similar enough features from the Watson side that they could very easily be mistaken for biological brother and sister. Suddenly Audrey spotted them and broke away from Sherlock.

"Daddy!" she shrieked and ran towards him. John caught her on the run and threw her up in the air and caught her again. She flung her arms around John's neck. "I love you, Daddy," she said.

"I love you too, chicken," John said, giving her a kiss on the forehead. She beamed.

"Audrey! Come and look at the monkeys!" cried Hamish, and John let Audrey down to run over to the Gorilla enclosure with him.

"Those aren't monkeys, Hamish." John heard Audrey proclaim. "Gorillas are apes."

Sherlock came to stand close beside John. "Audrey was concerned. She just asked if you still loved her since you're not her biological parent," said Sherlock.

"Ah, that explains it, then. I just had Hamish asking about his parentage. Apparently our daughter has been pointing out that they're not biological siblings," said John. "What did you tell her?"

"That she was being patently ridiculous but that she should observe and come to her own conclusion."

John shut his eyes. That was as good a response as any, he supposed. "Right," he said. "Although 'patently ridiculous' possibly isn't a helpful thing to say to a three-year-old."

"Nonsense, John. It is ridiculous to suggest that you or Clara love Audrey any less than you do Hamish, or that Harry and I care for Audrey more than our son."

John shook his head. "Well, I'm sure I managed to completely confuse Hamish. Somehow I ended up explaining the facts of life and then he wanted to know how we got the 'spoons' out of our bodies and I panicked and told him I'd tell him when he grew up."

Sherlock looked amused. Then he frowned. "Audrey is under the impression that it involved syringes and petri dishes and possibly a Bunsen burner."

John laughed. "You realised Clara and Harry are going to kill us. I'm pretty sure the birds and the bees was on their list of things they wanted us not to talk about."

Sherlock waved the thought away. "Clara and Harry will explain it appropriately. They always do."

"This stuff is much harder than when they were babies. Then it was just eat, poo, sleep, can they walk, that sort of stuff. Now we have to worry about inflicting permanent neuroses."

They watched the two children pointing at the apes and laughing.

"Although I think they'll be okay," said John.

"Mm, probably," agreed Sherlock. "If not, there are four of us to share the blame."

* * *

Sherlock played his violin. Peace had descended on 221B Baker Street. Upstairs in the nursery, two fair heads were angelically asleep on their pillows. A floor below, Mrs Hudson was watching her show on telly and having a herbal soother after an exciting visit from her adopted grandchildren. In the kitchen on a shelf out of reach of the children was a set of test tubes that Sherlock needed to check in an hour. And best of all, John was sitting in his chair, a cup of tea beside him, book in hand.

This _domesticity_ was not something he'd ever imagined wanting. If he'd asked his younger self, the one who'd raked his gaze over the limping friend of Mike Stamford's one day in a lab at Bart's and decided to impress him, he'd have sneered in derision at being so boringly conventional. It was unexpectedly un-boring however – this loving-John business, this being-a-father lark. It _should've_ been boring but it thrilled and scared and challenged him. John had entered his life and set about changing him, filling a space he hadn't known he'd had until he'd had to do without him again. There'd been three awful years of nothing, aching loneliness and a futile attempt to forget and scratch out and move on. But then, for John, he'd returned, and John had forgiven him and John had loved him and accepted his love in return. And now they had the children and despite his assumptions and his expectations and his carelessness, there were two more people he couldn't live without. Three people now, who were entirely central to his universe and as important – moreso, even – than himself. He had a family and love and it didn't scare him, and as much as he feared everything that caring _this much _entailed, he was willing to face it, risk all and anything, just to have this, have them. He was not alone, not anymore.

Besides, he hadn't lost anything. He still had the work: his cases, the mysteries and puzzles and the surge of exhilaration at just _being right_. Sherlock and John, on the battlefield of London – breathless and bright. Most days and nights, he and John would drop whatever they were doing instantly and race off to get high on their own brilliance and daring, but then, too, every other week there were times like these, nights like this, where only the most urgent life-threatening and dire circumstances could call Sherlock out into the night and John would not follow but instead would stay at home and answer texts and wait.

Sherlock felt a familiar glow of happiness deep inside. Sentiment, that's all it was, but that didn't make it any less wonderful and amazing, any less brilliant: his John, his family, and love and other ridiculous words that somehow never seemed quite enough anymore.

* * *

John looked up at Sherlock, a familiar feeling of fondness and adoration warming him. He admired the sight of his husband lost in thought and music, all sharp lines and contrasts. He was struck again by Sherlock's beauty – not just physical, never just that; this beauty consisted of layers of knowledge about this brilliant, complex man who had let him into his world. He'd given John excitement and danger and the adventure he'd craved. He'd given him love and let John love him back, and John would have been happy with just that. It had been enough. John had happily consigned thoughts of domestic bliss and children to another life but Sherlock, amazingly, had handed him that as well. A domestic bliss that included toes in the freezer and case files on the floor as well as a nursery up the stairs.

Sherlock met his eyes and John gave him a smile. Sherlock's lips quirked in return and his eyes crinkled. Greg Lestrade had said once that one day he hoped Sherlock would be a good man, and John thought there was no question of that now. Caring for the children had worn off the edges of his innate selfishness, made him a touch more thoughtful, even more empathetic in his work. Maybe his feelings for John helped a bit too. And John made sure to love him back, wholeheartedly, so there was never any question that this impossible, erratic, brilliant man was loved and cared for. Unconditional love had allowed Sherlock to slowly and carefully lower his defensive shields until the great heart was no longer hidden away and he had allowed himself to feel – just a bit. Mind you, he still disappeared inside his own head for days at a time, refused to tolerate imbeciles, insulted people thoughtlessly, sunk into depressive funks without sufficient mental stimulation and defaced the kitchen at least bimonthly with his experiments. He was also as brilliant and incandescent as ever and took John's breath away at least once a day.

After a moment Sherlock stilled his bow and put his violin away, and in three strides he had crossed the room and sunk down at John's feet, laying his head in his lap and wrapping his arms around his waist and knees. John put aside his book and carded his fingers through Sherlock's unruly curls.

Sherlock hummed lightly.

"Bed?" John asked softly.

"Mmm," said Sherlock. "For a bit – experiment." He sat up and propped his chin on John's lap, looking up at him. "I love you."

John traced Sherlock's jaw with his fingertips. "I know. I love you too."

He captured his hand and pressed a kiss on the palm then stood, pulling John up with him. Sherlock looked down at him, eyes darkening, a curl to his lips that John categorised as decidedly sexy.

"Come and perform your husbandly duties, Dr Watson."

John's tongue darted out to lick his lips. "All right then, Mr Holmes," he said, and led his husband off to their bedroom.

The End.

Notes: Well then, that's the end. Thanks for reading! Special thanks to those who left feedback, kudos or favourited, followed, alerted, bookmarked and generally let me know I wasn't just talking to myself :)

PS: A short, smutty out take from this 'verse has been written and is in the editing stage: John and Sherlock's escape techniques practice session.


	14. HIIYM outtake: Positive reinforcement

Hey folks - I'm not posting this outtake from HIIYM on ffnet because I think it's too pervy, but if you are an adult and are interested, here's the info.

**Title: **Positive reinforcement  
**Writer: **Mildredandbobbin  
**Alternate links:** also available at  
**Status of work:** Complete 1/1  
**Characters and/or pairings: **John/Sherlock, Lestrade  
**Rating: NC17**  
**Warnings/kinks/contents: **sex, spanking, light bondage, general non-sexual consent issues, orgasm delay/denial, unsafe bondage practices, anal sex, oral sex  
**Length: **4545

**Summary: **_An outtake from How I impregnated your mother: based on this mention during John's kidnapping, "one particular lazy afternoon spent practicing escape techniques with Sherlock with increasingly lascivious rewards_".

John has been kidnapped so often that he and Sherlock have developed a rescue procedure. John is understandably unimpressed when Sherlock decides to have a practice session without actually telling him - that is until Sherlock provides some motivation. Sexy kinky fun times ensue.

(dodgy looking links below, or follow the links in my profile and find the story that way)

** Read more... on LJ** mildred-bobbin dot livejournal dot com slash 15734 dot html or** A03**, archiveofourown dot org slash works/572482


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